


Somethin's Gotta Give

by stopcallingmeapollo (GayMarauders)



Series: Unrelated Theatre AUs [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Theatre, F/M, Inuit Character, M/M, Multi, Musical Fic, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Jehan, Trans Enjolras, Trans Feuilly, Trans Male Character, brief mentions of homophobia, filipino eponine, inuit feuilly, italian grantaire, jazz standards, mentions of neglect/emotional abuse, mexican courfeyrac, nonbinary montparnasse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7041043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayMarauders/pseuds/stopcallingmeapollo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After high school director Mr. Lamarque passes away suddenly, Enjolras decides to save the theatre department by putting on Combeferre's original musical, "Last Nights in London." It turns out that putting on a production with only high school students is easier said than done, though; Vice Principal Javert is constantly trying to find ways to shut them down, half the cast and crew seem to be secretly in love with each other, and there's a good chance he'll kill the musical director before the show is over.</p><p>Written by James @stopcallingmeapollo; Score by Simon-Jehan @therisgrand<br/>Performed by Mitchell @night-marius, Simon-Jehan @therisgrand, James @stopcallingmeapollo, and Sarah @ispent20minutesonthis</p><p>This fic is multimedia, with an album of original songs accompanying it. Each song is embedded much as it would be in a musical script, linked exactly where the song might be performed. The full album can also be found in a youtube playlist: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLrpapeacaGaBPiWf7AjbQQV5PrFXLYRF5</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to many, many people, so please bear with me.  
> First of all, to my lovely Beta readers: thank you so much!  
> Maddie, you read most of the fic out of order as I wrote it, and kept me smiling with your commentary and Hamilton references in the margins. Thank you for dealing with my bizarrely organized writing process. You've definitely earned a drop-in spot in my dorm next year ;)  
> Mickey, you reminded me of my wonderful readers, and helped me keep them in mind as I added about four fluffy scenes last-minute. Also, a thousand thanks for calling me out on not actually being able to speak Spanish or Tagalog, and for filling the gap between Google Translate and actual, readable dialogue.  
> Secondly, to my many inspirations, you are all wonderful.  
> My lads, whose personalities shine through in each of these characters, helped me form my characterizations on many levels. I am eternally grateful. Also, to my very own real-life fancasts, Mitchell, Lou, Mickey, and Alex, thank you so much for the use of your fabulous faces as inspiration. You’re beautiful!  
> Finally, to my readers:  
> Every comment and ask that I receive about my work brightens my day, and helps motivate me to keep creating. Without an audience, art is incomplete; so thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading what I write, and for sharing your experience of my art with me. I love you all!

“Welcome to the first official meeting of the Musaine High School Drama Club!” Enjolras grins at the strange assortment of students seated in the first few rows of the audience. “If you’re here it’s because you love theatre, you believe in the power it has, or—”

“Or you need the art credit to graduate from this hell hole.” Enjolras frowns as a deep, rough voice cuts through his speech. The source of the voice is, of course, Grantaire. A dark-haired girl next to him who Enjolras can only assume is his girlfriend snorts loudly.

“As I was saying, if you’re here it’s because you love and believe in the power of theatre. I know that losing Mr. Lemarque was a huge blow to our school. He was a fantastic teacher and director, and we all miss him. But he taught us a lot, and I think that if we all pull together, we’ll be able to put on the fall show just as well as we would have with him here. It’s going to be a lot of work, I won’t lie” he scans the audience, making eye contact with each of the students before him “But I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t truly believe that we could do this. It’s going to be an intense two months, but then again, every show is.” There’s a murmur of rueful agreement from the seniors, who have experienced Hell Week all too many times. “It’s a small school, so we’re each going to have to take on a lot of different roles. The chances are, you’ll end up on stage at some point during this show.”

“Hey fearless leader, does this speech have a point or…?” It’s Grantaire again, his voice still managing to fill the theatre from the back. Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“ _As I was about to say,_ I’ll be directing, but we still need a stage manager, costumer, set builders, and just about everything else you can think of. So if you’re up to it, that’s where all of you come in. Ferre is handing the signup sheet over right now, so just put your name next to whatever job you’d like to do.” The young man looks down, smiling when his blue eyes meet dark brown in the front row. “The administration has approved Combeferre’s script—with a few changes, unfortunately, but that was to be expected. So I’m going to hand this over to him, and he can explain the show to all of you. I hope you’ll all be as excited about it as I am!” Jumping off the stage and landing lightly in front of his friend, Enjolras plops into the seat between Combeferre and their friend Courfeyrac, clapping along with the other students as Ferre clambers onto the stage.

“Alright, well, as Enj said, my script made it through the Vice Principal’s office mostly intact. The original plan was to use Jehan’s Macbeth rewrite—“ Joly and Bossuet gasp in unison at the mention of the Scottish Play, and a loud groan sounds from the back “—but we don’t have a big enough budget for all the fake blood it called for, so we had to go with mine instead. Basically it’s a riff on those old movies from the ‘50s and ‘40s, but with some gayness thrown in. That’s the part Javert tried to cut, but as long as no one complains, I don’t think he can do much, so I think we’ll be safe.” He clears his throat as the others begin to shift in their seats, muttering about the homophobia that the staff seems bent on perpetuating. “It sucks, but yeah. Anyway, it’s got some music, but it’s not a musical, so pretty much anyone who’s interested can audition. Does anyone have any questions?”

As hands pop into the air and Combeferre fields questions about the plot and setting, Enjolras retrieves the signup list and scans it.

**ROLE**

| 

**NAME**

| 

**EMAIL**  
  
---|---|---  
  
Director

| 

Enjolras

| 

enjolras@musainehs.edu  
  
Stage Manager

| 

Joly

| 

jollllllllllllly@gmail.com  
  
Accompanist/Musical Director  
  
Lights

| 

Eponine

| 

fuckoffffff@gmail.com  
  
Sound

| 

Bossuet L.

| 

bossuet@musainehs.edu  
  
Costume Designer

| 

Jehan P.

| 

r.omantic@gmail.com  
  
Makeup Designer

| 

Monty

| 

donotcontactme@noneofyourbusiness.com  
  
PR

| 

Musichetta

| 

chettaisbetta@gmail.com  
  
Sets/Crew

| 

Feuilly

| 

feuilly@musainehs.edu  
  
Bahorel

| 

bahorel@musainehs.edu  
  
R

| 

grandeRdickthanyours@gmail.com  
  
**Actors**

| 

**(must audition)**  
  
Courfeyrac

| 

Courf-eyyyyyyy-rac@gmail.com  
  
Cosette F.

| 

Littlelark2000@gmail.com  
  
Marius P.

| 

marius@musainehs.edu  
  
It isn’t a bad group to put on a play with, Enjolras thinks. His only concern is the number of actors—their program was never very big to begin with, and with the tragic loss of their beloved director just before the school year began, many students have given up on theatre altogether. Then his eyes flick back up to the top of the paper, registering the one empty role—musical director. Combeferre hasn’t asked for much, but the inclusion of jazz standards in the background “for authenticity” is important to him, and Enjolras doesn’t know enough about music to pull it off himself. Sighing, he turns to Courfeyrac.

“Hey, Courf, do you know anyone who does musical stuff?” He whispers. His friend’s curly head turns toward him.

“What?”

“We don’t have a musical director or accompanist, and I can’t play the piano. Do you know anyone who could do it?”

“I’m not sure, but I can poke around a bit for you if you want? There must be someone who’s willing,” Courfeyrac replies brightly.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, relaxing a bit. If there’s anyone who can find an accompanist, it’s Courfeyrac—his networking skills are insane, and although he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, he has a habit of hanging around the choir and band kids and singing along at their concerts. If it weren’t for his sunny disposition and aggressive friendliness, Enjolras suspects he might have been run out of town on account of his voice.

“Alright, well if there aren’t any more questions, then I’m gonna let Enjolras wrap this up,” he hears Combeferre say. Climbing back onto the stage, he addresses the enthusiastic crowd.

“Thank you guys for coming today! I think we’re actually going to pull this off,” he says happily. “I’ll send you all an email about the next meeting, and if anyone knows someone who might be interested in playing the piano and helping the singers learn their parts, then PLEASE send them our way! And that concludes our first meeting!” A smattering of applause breaks out, and Enjolras bows jokingly before jumping off the stage and grabbing his backpack.

“My house today! We have planning to do and I made brownies,” Courfeyrac announces, and the triumvirate makes its way out of the theatre and onto the street, Courf’s arms linked with Enjolras’s and Combeferre’s as they make their way to his house. _We’re actually doing this!_

* * *

 

That night, as Enjolras is preparing to close his laptop and go to bed, a blue rectangle appears at the top of his screen.

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** Hey I think I might have found u a musical director dude

Brightening, Enjolras opens Skype and types his response as quickly as possible:

 **GIVE ME LIBERTY FROM PRECALCULUS:** Who is it????

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** Ok you have to promise not to b mad

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** I tried my best

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** And this is the only person who’s got the time, and has enough musical ability to accompany + direct + everything

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** Also ur gonna have to work p hard to convince him probly but I swear it’ll be worth it he’s really really good

 **GIVE ME LIBERTY FROM PRECALCULUS:** Who tf is it courf

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** I promise I tried to find someone else

 **GIVE ME LIBERTY FROM PRECALCULUS:** C O U R F

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** Promise not to kill me first

 **GIVE ME LIBERTY FROM PRECALCULUS:** I promise!!!!! It can’t be that bad can it???

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** Ok so

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** You know my brother

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** he’s actually kinda a musical prodigy person

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** and he has to do this project anyway so

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** you’re gonna have to ask him tho he really doesn’t wanna do any work on this

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** but he’ll be worth it he’s soooooooo good he like composed a whole opera about toast when we were kids

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** Enjolras??? Say something

 **GIVE ME LIBERTY FROM PRECALCULUS:** are you sure he’s the only person who can do this?

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** unless u want me doing music stuff then…

 **GIVE ME LIBERTY FROM PRECALCULUS:** fuck.

 **GIVE ME LIBERTY FROM PRECALCULUS:** fine. Thanks courf

 **UPTOWN FUNKING YOU UP:** anything 4 u bae  <3

Closing his laptop, Enjolras takes a deep breath. He picks up his phone and scrolls through his contacts, selecting a number he never expected to have to use after that one ill-fated history project Freshman year. Opening a new text, he steels himself and begins typing.

_1:23 pm_

Hi, Grantaire, this is Enjolras. I was wondering if you’d be interested in being the musical director for the show, since we haven’t been able to find anyone else. Please LMK ASAP if you can, it would be really helpful.

After five minutes pass without incident, he sets his phone on his nightstand and turns out the light. _It’s not like he’s going to agree anyway…_

* * *

 

It is five sixteen A.M. when Enjolras is pulled from his sleep by the sound of _Ten Duel Commandments_ playing at full volume. He sits up in bed, feeling his way through the darkness until he finds his phone and slides the button to answer the call.

“Hello?”

“You’re kidding me, right?” The voice is unmistakable. Enjolras groans.

“Grantaire, do you have any idea what time it is?” He’s standing now, heading for the bathroom to splash cold water on his face—not that he really needs it at this point, the sound of an angry Grantaire at five o’clock in the morning was more than enough to wake him.

“Did I wake you up?” Grantaire sounds genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know gods needed to sleep.”

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras mumbles, leaning on the counter and staring at himself in the mirror. He’s a bit of a mess, curls matted on one side and random pieces of hair sticking out at odd angles. “I went to bed at one, I had at least another hour left…fuck why are we talking about this, Grantaire, _what do you want.”_

“It’s more about what I don’t want. Specifically, I don’t want to be the musical director for your little attempt at gay subversion.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm, and it’s really far too early for this.

“Listen, Grantaire, since you woke me up I’m not going to sugarcoat this. There are a lot of people invested in this project. We need a musical director. Courf says you can do music. If you want me to tell your counselor you earned your arts credit working with us, I think you’d better play the damn piano.” He regrets his choice the minute the words are out of his mouth—he’s essentially blackmailing someone to help with a high school musical. But what’s done is done.

“Are you—are you _blackmailing_ me?”

“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” Enjolras forces as much bravado into his voice as he can at this hour. “I’ll see you at three in the theatre for auditions. Don’t be late.” He hangs up before Grantaire can respond, setting his phone on the counter and taking a deep breath before stripping off his shirt and reaching for his testosterone gel. _May as well get going now, there’s no use trying to sleep. And hey, we’ve got our musical director…_


	2. Chapter 2

“Who’s up first?” Combeferre looks expectantly at Joly, who shuffles through a small stack of paperwork and pulls out a resume.

“Courfeyrac, who do you expect?”

At the sound of his name, Courfeyrac steps onto the stage between the curtains. There’s a flash of white as he grins at his friends.

“Did someone call?” Enjolras rolls his eyes, and Combeferre smiles fondly. “I’ll be doing a piece from Roberto Sacasa’s _Dark Matters_.”

Two minutes later Enjolras, Combeferre, and Joly are clapping madly as Courf takes a bow. He might be a goofy person, but his acting is no joke.

“Great job! We’ll let you know.” Enjolras calls as he leaves. “Who’s next?”

“Cosette Fauchelevant! Sophomore, female, member of the jazz choir. She’d like to audition for a singing role.” Joly leaves his papers on the table in front of Enjolras and Combeferre as he goes to fetch the next auditioner.

“I’ve never heard of Cosette. She must be good if she got into Jazz Choir her sophomore year, though,” Enjolras muses.

“Actually, I’ve been in Jazz Choir since I was a freshman,” a voice says. Enjolras looks up to see a small, bouncy girl staring at him from the stage. She gives the impression of a garden turned human, her long black hair dyed pink at the ends and her dress a colourful floral pattern. Enjolras almost expects a bluebird to land on her shoulder. “I’m Cosette Fauchelevant, and I’ll be performing Juliet from _Romeo and Juliet,_ then _You’re Nobody Til Somebody Loves You._ ” She watches the auditors expectantly.

“Uh, whenever you’re ready!” Combeferre calls after a moment. Cosette nods and bows her head, centering herself.

“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name…” It’s clear that she’s been classically trained; Cosette’s Juliet is more believable than the girl who played her in the school play last year. Enjolras smiles as she finishes, making a note next to her name on the paper in front of him.

“And now I’ll be singing—“

“Fuck, sorry I’m late.” Stumbling onstage through the curtains, Grantaire drops his bag by the piano and looks around. “I didn’t miss anything did I?” The girl who sat next to him at the first meeting is with him, and Enjolras huffs in annoyance. Bringing your girlfriend to audition isn’t exactly professional, although he’s not sure what he expected from Grantaire.

“Cosette was just about to sing, you’re just in time,” Combeferre says hurriedly, shooting Enjolras a “ _not now”_ look.

“Oh great! What’re you singing? _Welcome to the Black Parade?”_ Grantaire winks and Cosette giggles. Enjolras is not amused.

“She said _You’re Nobody Til Somebody Loves You,_ didn’t you, Cosette?” he says pointedly.

“I think I know that one, if you want some accompaniment?” Grantaire is already opening the piano, his hands poised over the keys.

“This is supposed to be an a Capella audition…” Enjolras can see he’s not going to win this one, though, so he just sits back and listens as Cosette “absolutely kills it,” in Joly’s words.

“Thank you, Cosette, we’ll let you know,” he says as the final notes fade out.

“Nice job,” Grantaire adds. Cosette shakes his hand and leaves the theatre, smiling at Joly as he holds the door for her.

“Who else is there?” Combeferre asks when he’s finished scribbling notes on his pad.

“It looks like…Marius Pontmercy. Sophomore, male, passionately opposed to singing onstage. He’s been in one play before this, in middle school. He’s the last one, so I hope he’s good.”

Enjolras stares at Joly in horror. “The last one?!”

“We only have three auditioners. No one wants to be in a play the Vice Principal is already trying to censor,” he explains apologetically. Enjolras sighs in resignation.

“Send him in.” Joly sets his papers down on the table and exits the theatre. A moment later, he returns with a skinny, nervous-looking boy. He has dirty blond hair and the air of a person who is going to be executed by a firing squad for something he wasn’t sure he wanted to do in the first place.

“Um, hi…my name is Marius Pontmercy, I’m sixteen, and I’m going to be doing Romeo’s monologue from _Romeo and Juliet._ ” He takes a deep breath, and suddenly he’s not an awkward sophomore anymore; or rather, he is, but there’s something else radiating from him, a quiet, sincere happiness.

“Lo, what light from yonder window breaks? Um…uh, I—Il est à l'est, et Juliette est le soleil…” He continues through the entire monologue in fluent French, his face and movements convincing despite the fact that none of the auditors can understand a word he says. When he finishes, he looks up at his audience and announces “¿Acabo de decir todo en francés no? Mierda,” and leaves. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Joly sit in silence for a moment before Enjolras speaks.

“He’s the last one?” Joly nods. “I can work with that.”

* * *

Marius finds himself in the school's deserted library a few minutes after his audition. He doesn't know where his backpack is, or his coat for that matter; but he also can't quite remember the words for either of those items, so he decides it would probably be fine. Sighing deeply, he sinks into the nearest chair and lets his forehead rest on the table in front of him. He's not sure how much time has passed when he hears the library door open.

"Marius?" It's Cosette; of course it's Cosette. Marius concentrates as hard as he can, attempting to summon an earthquake that would make the nearest bookshelf fall and hide him from the approaching girl. It seems he lacks the powers required for such things, though, and the earth remains stationary beneath him. A moment later he feels a light hand on his shoulder, and Cosette sits down next to him. "Are you alright?"

Marius moves his head back and forth slightly, his forehead still pressed to the table. Cosette hums sympathetically, her hand gently rubbing his back.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Marius groans slightly in response, and Cosette seems to understand. "I think you did really well, Marius. Even when you weren't speaking in English, we could all feel the emotions Romeo was feeling! You're really good, babe." A small snort sounds from the vicinity of the table and Cosette frowns. "No, really! Even Enjolras looked impressed, and everyone knows how hard it is to get him to approve of a performance."

"He probably thinks I'm an idiot." Marius's voice is muffled, but Cosette is encouraged by the fact that he's using full sentences, and forges on.

"No, he thinks you're an incredibly talented actor who's really gifted at languages and has such a great understanding of Shakespeare that his performances transcend language barriers." Marius can't think of a reply to that one, so he just squishes his nose against the table a little harder, wishing his (beautiful, perfect, talented, out-of-his-league) girlfriend would stop making so much sense when he was so miserable.

"Go away and let me suffer in peace," he moans.

"Not happening," Cosette says firmly. "We just had a great audition, and my rule is that every audition must be followed by ice cream." She stands then, waiting for Marius to rise as well. "Come on, sweetheart, I'm sure they loved you just as much as I do, you're amazing."

Marius's head flies off the table, and he gazes up at her with eyes wide.

"You love me?"

"I thought that might get your attention." She smiles, leaning down to plant a light kiss on his cheek. "And of course I do, why else would I spend half an hour watching you bang your head on a desk after a perfectly good audition?" She hands him his missing backpack and jacket then, and Marius pulls them on as they head out the door and down the stairs.

["I love you too, Cosette."](https://youtu.be/nCzM_oY-Mcc)

["I know."](https://youtu.be/nCzM_oY-Mcc)

 

* * *

 

“Alright, so…I’m not totally sure what to do, honestly,” Enjolras admits. He, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, and Grantaire are seated at Courfeyrac and Grantaire’s kitchen table, a half-empty plate of cookies in the centre. “The play has six roles, which really isn’t a lot, but we only have three actors.”

“One of whom can’t say his lines without getting nervous and switching languages,” Combeferre adds, shaking his head. “I took French with him last year, and he’s really good, but…that could be a problem.”

“We have two months; I can work with him. Let’s just cast the actors we have and then see where we are.” Enjolras glances down at the papers in front of him. “First of all, Courfeyrac. He can’t sing so he can’t play the bartender, but I could see him as the Captain.”

Combeferre nods. “It’s a challenging role, but I trust him with it. I think he’d be a great Sammy.”

“What about Courf as Lily? He seems a little short for a big scary military captain,” Grantaire deadpans. Courfeyrac snorts.

“Does anyone have any _actual_ issues with Courfeyrac as Captain Sammy Harding?” Silence. “Then it’s decided,” Enjolras announces. “And for John, Marius was rough as far as his grasp of English goes but his acting was incredible…I vote we take a chance on him. I think I can work with him enough to get him confident onstage.”

“You might want to add subtitles just in case he decides to start flirting with Lily in Cantonese,” Grantaire remarks, smirking at Enjolras.

“I _said,_ I’ll work with him,” he snaps. “Moving on—Cosette is the perfect Lily. She can sing, she can act, and she has the right balance of spunk and sweetness…that’s really all we could hope for honestly. Anyone opposed?” A moment passes and the group turns to Grantaire expectantly.

“What? She was great. I think she’ll make a good Lily.” He says to Enjolras, who blinks in surprise, then nods.

“That’s that, then. For the rest of them…Combeferre, do you think you could write out the bus boy? I love him but I don’t think we’re going to be able to draft anyone with good enough comedic timing to fill the role.”

“Yeah, I guess. I hate to see him go, but you’re right. How about the pianist and the bartender, though? They’re kind of important. It’s just another heterosexual love story without them.” Courfeyrac makes a show of gagging dramatically, and Joly laughs.

“Enjolras can be the bartender!” Joly says. “He had that big role in the musical last year, so we know he can sing.” The rest of the group looks to Enjolras for confirmation, but he frowns.

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea. My voice is kind of shaky since I started testosterone, and my range keeps changing.” He bites his lip, thinking.

“Grantaire can take care of that! He’s great, he can probably transpose whatever you need. And if we cast him as the bar’s pianist Bennie, instead of recording him and playing it over the speakers, he can jump in and harmonize with you if your voice cracks or something.” Courfeyrac beams at his own brilliance, but Grantaire and Enjolras are not convinced.

“I never signed up to act. I’m just supposed to work on the music, remember?” Grantaire scowls at his brother.

“Oh, come on, you did all those plays in elementary school! You were a natural. And if we don’t cast someone in the role there’s no show, and you don’t get the credit,” Courf smiles smugly at Grantaire. “Check and mate.”

“Fine. Are we done?” Grantaire grouses.

“Yeah, I think we are. You can announce casting online tonight, Joly, and then the first rehearsal is on Monday. Meeting adjourned.” Enjolras stands and scoops his bag up off the floor by his chair.

Once their guests have gone, Courfeyrac stands and stretches.

“I think I’m gonna take a shower and go to bed early.”

“Like hell you are. Sit down, _hermanito,_ we’re gonna have a talk. First of all, you have got to stop volunteering me for shit. And second of all, _why the fuck did you make them cast me as Enjolras’s love interest?”_

“Why, brother dear, no one is Enjolras’s love interest. That’s all just subtext.” Courfeyrac winks, then walks past his brother and up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: A Dazzling Intersection of Youth and Joy  
> Artist: Simon-Jehan @therisgrand as Marius  
> Link: https://youtu.be/nCzM_oY-Mcc


	3. Chapter 3

“Can everyone settle down for a minute? I need to get a headcount,” Enjolras calls. The sound of his voice barely cuts through the confusion of the Musaine drama club. “Joly, is everyone here?”

“Amazingly, yes,” Joly replies, checking his list. “We should probably get started soon. We only have the room for half an hour.”

“Ok, everybody—“

“ _Yo, quiet down!_ ” Courfeyrac shouts. Immediately, the room goes silent. Enjolras nods his appreciation and then, pausing for a moment, hops on top of a chair.

“Alright, everyone, let’s make this quick. We need to figure out what everyone is doing, when they’re doing it, and how it’s getting done. First up: set building. Since Grantaire generously offered to be the musical director—” Grantaire snorts “—Bahorel and Feuilly, you’ll be on your own. Combeferre wrote down everything you need to know; basically we need a blue wall, a couple tables and chairs, and a bar with something that looks like a tap. Your budget is one hundred dollars, so you’ll need to be creative. Questions?” Feuilly raises his hand.

“Do we get to use the shop tools for this?”

“No, unfortunately Javert didn’t want to give us access to anything ‘potentially dangerous.’ Bahorel said something about tools at his house earlier, though, didn’t you?” Bahorel nods.

“Yeah, my dad works construction and he said we could borrow some stuff over the weekend. That’s the only time we’ll get, though, and I live out in Renton, so it’ll probably have to be a sleepover. No homo though,” he adds, winking.

“Sounds good,” Feuilly assents.

“Great, that’s settled then. Now as for costumes, we get access to everything in the costume shop, Jehan…”

“There’s no way in hell I’m putting living humans into those grungy old costumes. Last time I was back there I saw a flea.”

“Awesome!” Enjolras says sarcastically, his smile tightening. “I’ve put aside fifty dollars for costume budget; it’s not a lot, but I figure if people bring most of their stuff from home, it should work.” He thinks for a moment before continuing. “Montparnasse, I’m guessing you have enough makeup to make this work.”

“I’ve got you covered, boss.” Montparnasse smiles, their tongue flicking out over burgundy lips. Enjolras nods.

“And finally, as far as rehearsals go…they’ll be every day from three to five in the theatre, but not everyone will be called every day to allow some leeway in actors’ schedules. Joly, Combeferre, Grantaire, and I will be there every day if you need anything, though. And Bossuet and Eponine, I’ve got it cleared so you can be in the booth whenever you want, so you can get started on the light plots and everything ASAP.” They both grunt in acknowledgement; Eponine is staring at her phone, and Bossuet is struggling with his shoelaces. Enjolras decides to let it go. “Questions?”

“How are we printing posters?” Musichetta asks. She has her laptop out and spins it around so that Enjolras can see the poster design, the words “ _Original Student Production”_ and “ _Directed by Enjolras”_ making him smile.

“Mrs. Magloire in the office will help you print up to seventy five black-and-white copies when we get closer to performances,” Joly replies, “And then you, me, and Boss can hang them up around the school and at the mall.” He leans over and plants a kiss on Chetta’s cheek, and she smiles fondly at him.

“It’s a date!” Bossuet sits up long enough to kiss his girlfriend from the other side, and Courfeyrac coos at the unbearable cuteness of it all.

“Anyway, that’s all I have for now. Rehearsals start on Monday, so have a good weekend and come to the first rehearsal well-rested, please. Meeting adjourned.” As the group breaks up, Enjolras jumps off his chair and finds himself face-to-chest with Grantaire.

“You’re telling me I have to be at this thing five times a week?” His forest green hoodie doesn’t communicate the irritation in Grantaire’s voice, so Enjolras tilts his head back to make eye contact.

“You have lines in most scenes, plus you have to play the accompaniment for all the songs, and teach me and Cosette our music. Unless you’re willing to stay late a few times a week to work with me, you’re gonna have to commit to five days a week.” His arms are crossed, eyebrow cocked and feet planted. Grantaire realizes he probably won’t win this one, but the idea of eight solid weeks of work is just too horrifying for him to stomach.

“You’re always over at my house hanging out with Courf anyway. How about we do Mondays and Tuesdays for an hour after rehearsal? Then I get some freedom the rest of the week.” He crosses his arms so his stance mirrors Enjolras’s.

“I’m going to be busy most weekdays after rehearsal; how about two hours after rehearsal on Fridays, you come to rehearsal Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and we call it good?”

“You’re telling me you don’t have anything better to do on a Friday night than yell at me while I play piano?” Grantaire assumes that Enjolras has some life outside of school and theatre; a boyfriend, even. It seems a bit much to give that up for a high school play, even for someone as dedicated as Enjolras.

“That’s Combeferre’s, Courfeyrac’s, and my Documentary Night. Only lately I’ve been getting the feeling that they might not want me sharing the popcorn,” Enjolras says, a small smile playing over his lips. Grantaire chuckles.

“Yeah, you may be right about that. Friday it is, then.” They face each other awkwardly for a moment before he speaks again. “Do you need a ride home?”

“Actually I’m heading to Combeferre’s. One last hoorah as the third wheel before next week. Tonight we’re watching a sloth documentary.”

“I think you mean… _slothumentary_.” Enjolras groans, and Grantaire laughs. “Well I promised I’d take Eponine to the mall sometime this week, so I should probably go find her if you don’t need a ride. See you Monday.”

“See you Monday.” It’s the first time in the three years that they’ve known each other that Enjolras has ended a conversation with Grantaire on a positive note; he’s surprised to find himself smiling as the taller boy walks away. _Well, that’s new._

Combeferre walks into his living room to find Courfeyrac and Enjolras already curled up under a pile of blankets, the Netflix homescreen visible on the TV.

“Thanks for all your help,” he says sarcastically as he passes bowls of popcorn to each of them. “I’ve got some of that bottled cheese to put on top if anyone wants it, too.” Courfeyrac grins, grabbing the canister from Combeferre and squeezing out a generous amount of cheese product over his popcorn.

“I don’t care if it’s awful for me, this is the only way to eat popcorn,” he declares contentedly. “Now let’s see this slothumentary, shall we?” Enjolras groans.

“Did Grantaire tell you to call it that?”

“What?” Courfeyrac looks up in confusion.

“Grantaire called it a ‘slothumentary’ today. It’s a terrible pun,” Enjolras explains.

“Damn, I thought I was the first to think of it,” Courfeyrac pouts.

“You two really are related,” Combeferre observes.

“That’s what my mom claimed when she dropped me on the doorstep,” Courfeyrac quips. “I think the weirder part of this is that R and Enj apparently had a conversation. With puns.” He looks expectantly at Enjolras.

“I guess it was bound to happen,” Enjolras says. “You can’t go three years without having a single civil conversation. And the puns are pretty much part of the package with your family.” Courfeyrac shrugs, accepting the assessment of his household. “I wouldn’t expect it to keep up, though. No offense, but your brother’s kind of a dick.”

“Yes, so we’ve heard. Several times.” Combeferre says dryly. “Methinks thou doth protest too much, my dear Enj.” Enjolras frowns at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, besides your little mancrush on Feuilly, the person you talk the most about is R,” Courfeyrac replies. “And yeah, it’s mostly to complain, but still…we all know you have a thing for tall guys and—“

“I do _not like_ your brother,” Enjolras exclaims. “I mean sure, he’d probably be kind of attractive if he ever bothered to brush his hair, but have you _met_ him? He’s infuriating.” His arms are crossed now, and he directs his argument at the television rather than Courfeyrac.

“The fact that you’ve thought about what he’d look like if his hair were brushed is rather telling,” Combeferre comments.

 _Honestly, the thought of me and Grantaire..._ he shudders. _And clearly he has terrible taste in people anyway, I mean his girlfriend is an emo sophomore...Why am I even thinking about this right now?_ Shaking himself mentally, Enjolras fires back at Combeferre:

“Look, if I have to pretend you two aren’t totally gay for each other, then you can’t try to make something out of my _complete disgust_ for Grantaire.” He raises an eyebrow combatively.

“What?!” Courfeyrac exclaims from his place on Combeferre’s lap. “You’re crazy. We’ve known each other since we were kids, we don’t _like_ each other.”

“Let’s just watch the documentary, shall we?” Combeferre says, swallowing hard.

[“Fine.” Courfeyrac and Enjolras can’t stay mad for long, though, and by the time the documentary is over, all three of them are cuddled together, barely awake. And if he notices that Courfeyrac nuzzles closer to Combeferre at every opportunity, Enjolras knows better than to comment on it.](https://youtu.be/mJH_7RA4EVs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: A Boy Serenades His Best Friend Through Puns  
> Artist: Simon-Jehan @therisgrand as Courfeyrac  
> Link: https://youtu.be/mJH_7RA4EVs


	4. Chapter 4

Feuilly arrives behind the school to the rather startling sight of Bahorel, shirtless and sweaty as he attempts to drag an oversized flat across the parking lot.

“Hey Foo! Just in time. Grab the other side of this sucker will you?” Bahorel calls. Feuilly drops his bag under the shadow of the building and picks up one end of the wood panel, staggering under its weight for a moment. “We just need to get it a few feet away, so it’s in the sun…perfect, thanks.” They drop it unceremoniously onto the ground and a cloud of dust billows up.

“What’re we supposed to be doing with this, exactly?” he asks, blinking dust from his eyes. He stares very carefully at Bahorel’s face, trying in vain to block out the peripheral view of his bare chest.

“I dunno, man…something about a blue wall. I’ve got some paint here, should do the trick. That’s why I took my shirt off; don’t wanna get paint on it.” He grins wickedly at Feuilly. “Although I try to avoid wearing a shirt whenever possible; don’t wanna deprive the world of the view.” He winks and flexes one arm (which is actually pretty impressive, Feuilly tries not to admit to himself). “Anyway, there’re a couple rollers over there, and I already poured out some paint, so I guess we should just get to work, yeah?” They each take a roller, load it with paint, and head over to the flat.

After about fifteen minutes of rolling, Bahorel and Feuilly find themselves headed back to the nearly-empty paint dish at the same time. Determined not to be stuck opening and pouring the new can, Feuilly picks up his pace a bit and slaps his roller in a bit faster than he intends. Paint flies up, and Bahorel lets out an ungodly shriek as his chest and stomach are streaked with blue.

“What the hell?!” a moment later, Feuilly finds himself at the business end of Bahorel’s roller, as his friend paints a stripe down his shirt.

“ _ Bro!” _ There’s not much paint left in the dish, but it’s more than enough to pour on Bahorel’s head, and Feuilly jumps up to do just that. Bahorel grimaces, wiping paint off his face with the heels of his palms.

“Fuck, I surrender! I can’t believe you dumped paint on my beautiful hair…” Feuilly cackles gleefully.

“Serves you right, you ruined my shirt.” He looks down at the tattered flannel and sighs.

“Oh, shit, sorry bro…you should probably take that off or it’ll soak through.” Bahorel reaches for a rag from a conveniently-placed pile and swipes it across his chest.

“All I’ve got underneath is my binder,” Feuilly observes.

“Well, I won’t report you to the office for public indecency if you won’t report me,” Bahorel teases.

“Gee, thanks.” He undoes the buttons quickly and strips off the shirt, throwing it in the pile of rags. Underneath is a worn undershirt/binder combo, with a phrase printed across it:

**_No, I will not teach you 100 words for snow._ **

Bahorel chuckles. “Do people actually ask you that?”

“All the time. That, and if I live in an igloo.” Feuilly shakes his head ruefully. “We live in fucking Seattle, where the hell would I even get the snow for it? I used to have an actual shirt that said it, but Vice Principal Javert told me it was inflammatory or some shit, so I just kinda started writing stuff on my binders. It still counts as self-expression if nobody sees it, right?”

“Of course. That’s actually pretty cool, you know? Like you do that yourself?” Bahorel asks. Feuilly shrugs. It never occurred to him as being particularly interesting.

“Yeah. I have a silk screen that one of my old foster moms gave me for my birthday a while back, and when I get inspired I write random stuff on my clothes.”

“If I gave you a shirt would you do it for me?” Bahorel asks eagerly. “I have some great ideas for t-shirts.”

“Sure! If you come over after we’re done here I can show you how it works—“at that moment Feuilly catches sight of Enjolras coming toward them form the back entrance, looking decidedly unamused.

“Is any of that paint actually on the flat?” he demands.

“Uh, yeah, we’re almost done! We just had an…incident,” Feuilly says lamely.

“If a teacher sees all this paint all over the place, we’re going to lose our theatre privileges,” Enjolras groans.

“We’ll clean it up.” Bahorel sets down his roller and turns to Feuilly. “Come on, we just need some paper towels and water I think.”

“Don’t leave until it’s cleaned up!” Enjolras calls as they head for the door.  _ I can’t believe this, it’s a simple task…Feuilly of all people should have been able to handle this responsibly! _

“Woah, what happened here? I didn’t know you were an artist, Apollo.” Enjolras whips around to find Grantaire smirking at him. Even leaning against the paint-stained wall, he towers over Enjolras; which only serves to make him that much more annoying.

“My name is Enjolras,” he snaps. “I went by Apollo for two seconds Freshman year during my mythology phase, I wish you’d let it die.”

“It suits you so well, though,” Grantaire drawls. “Anyway, weren’t we supposed to be in rehearsal like ten minutes ago?”

“ _ Shit!”  _ Enjolras takes off like a shot, slamming full-force into the door. “Who locked this?”

“It’s a ‘pull,’ if I remember correctly.” Grantaire reaches past Enjolras to take hold of the door handle, opening the door and gesturing grandly toward Enjolras. “After you, monsieur.”

“Are you wearing Axe?” Enjolras’s nose wrinkles in disgust.

“Are you sniffing me?” Grantaire’s eyebrow rises about three feet as Enjolras sputters.

“It’s a little hard not to when you douse yourself in the world’s douchiest scent,” he replies as he brushes past his antagonist.

“Touché.” Grantaire laughs as he follows Enjolras inside. “So what’re we doing today, exactly?”

“Just read your damn schedule, Axe boy.”


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras stands on Courfeyrac and Grantaire’s porch for a long time after he knocks; if not for the lights that shine from most of the windows, he would think no one was home. Finally, he sighs and leans over, pulling the spare key from under the mat and letting himself in.

Enjolras quickly makes his way upstairs, heading for the right wing of the house. Eventually he finds himself in a small room, flanked on either side by two doors. One has a large piece of paper on it, the swooping glitter-glue script spelling out _Courfeyrac._ The other has a weathered stop sign on it. Rolling his eyes at the cliché of a ne’er-do-well teen stealing a traffic sign, Enjolras knocks once again. There’s a shuffling sound inside, and a moment later the door opens.

“Oh, hey.” Grantaire stares at Enjolras, then steps aside. “Come on in, I guess.” Enjolras passes Grantaire and stands in the centre of his room, taking it in. The bed is nestled in a strange little nook around what should be the far corner of the room; the rest is full of instruments. The far wall has several guitars and what looks like a lute hanging on it, above a large desk. The closet is open, and over a small pile of clothes, several shelves house a diverse collection of sheet music books. Against the wall by the door is a small, beat-up piano. Grantaire shuts the door and sits on the bench backward, looking up at Enjolras. “So, what’re we working on today, Chief?”

“I thought we could start off with _I’ll Be Seeing You,_ and then see if we have any extra time. It’s the one I’m shakiest on at the moment.” Enjolras clasps his hands in front of himself, watching Grantaire expectantly.

“Ok, so…let me find it…yeah, this one’s not too bad. How do you want to start off?” He opens his fakebook and sets it up where they can both see it, facing the piano now.

“I think we should try to come in pretty softly, and kind of fade in as Marius’s monologue ends, yeah?” Enjolras steps closer, examining the music over Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Fine. So from the top, yeah? Or do you need to warm up?” Grantaire is fighting not to tense every muscle in his body, but he can feel warmth radiating from Enjolras’s body behind him, and it’s all he can do to start playing when Enjolras indicates that he’s ready.

“ _I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places…that this heart of mine embraces, all day through…”_ they haven’t even finished the first stanza before Grantaire’s hands drop into his lap.

“Bro, you’re not a soprano anymore.”

“What?” Enjolras’s brow is still furrowed in concentration, and Grantaire takes a moment to appreciate the intensity of his stare before elaborating.

“I’m not totally sure what your voice type is at this point, but it’s definitely lower than what you’re trying to do. It’s physically painful to listen to you try to hit those notes.” Grantaire’s hands hover over the keyboard for a moment before he plays a few notes. “See, this is what you were doing.” He shifts down a step. “And this is what you should be doing. I’ll play the melody, you try to bring it down where I am.”

“But my voice hasn’t even really dropped yet—“ Enjolras protests.

“Listen, which of us has been playing the piano for the past thirteen years? And for that matter, which of us has already gone through that kind of vocal change?” Silence. “Male puberty is fucking weird, man. Your voice doesn’t just suddenly drop one day, you’re going to lose and gain notes all over the place. And right now you’ve lost about seventy percent of the notes you were trying to sing.” Enjolras frowns at the criticism, but stays silent. Grantaire decides that’s the best he can hope for.

“From the top. Here, I’ll try to sing it with you. Ready? _I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places….”_ Enjolras’s voice gets stronger as they progress through the song, and Grantaire lets him finish it alone.

“Better?” Enjolras asks.

“A little. Do you want to move on?” Grantaire glances up at the clock above the piano, calculating whether he can make it to Joly’s house in time for movie night if he leaves _right this minute._

“That one phrase toward the middle is still awkward though. If you could just transpose that one bit…”

It’s over an hour before they finish the song, and Enjolras catches Grantaire glancing up at the clock for the fifth time.

“Do you have somewhere else to be?” He demands, hands on hips.

“No, Apollo, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than locked in my room with you on a Friday night,” Grantaire replies sarcastically.

“You’re the musical director, and you agreed to do two hours on Friday nights.” Enjolras’s straightens, and he would almost be threatening if that didn’t bring him up to just shy of five feet, three inches. Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“You blackmailed me. I’m doing it; that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”

“I would think you’d be happy to be doing something that’s actually productive, for once, especially when it’s trying to break through some of the homophobia at our school,” Enjolras says cuttingly. “Although, you know, you cishets are all the same. You don’t give a shit about anyone besides yourselves.”

“I’m bisexual.” It’s not the well-crafted, semi-humorous response Grantaire intended to use, but it’s damned effective. Enjolras’s eyes widen and he’s silent for a moment.

“I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” It’s the first time Grantaire has seen Enjolras speechless.

“Yeah, well, you were probably right about the rest. I am a self-centred, useless bastard.” Enjolras bites his lip, obviously itching to reply but unable to find the right words.

“I should go.”

“Yeah, you probably should.” Grantaire watches him leave, still seated on the piano bench. He can hear the soft sound of footsteps going down the stairs, the sound of the spare key locking the door— _Because Enjolras can’t even storm out without doing the polite thing, can he—_ and then silence.

Half an hour later, his phone buzzes. He swipes the screen to find a text from Courfeyrac.

_7:52 pm, Courfeyrac:_

Wtf did you do 2 him?????

_7:53 pm:_

What are you talking about

_7:55 pm, Courfeyrac:_

Enj just showed up @Ferre’s &he won’t say what happened

_7:55 pm, Courfeyrac:_

What did u say

_7:56 pm:_

Actually it’s what he said. Doesn’t matter. What did you expect, with the two of us alone in a room for an hour

_7:58 pm, Courfeyrac:_

A little more making out, a little less running out :P

_8:00 pm, Courfeyrac:_

Hello??

* * *

 

“Enjolras, are you sure you’re ok?” Combeferre looks at his friend with concern creasing his face. Enjolras’s sudden appearance at his door isn’t necessarily unusual, but the fact that he left a rehearsal and walked a mile certainly is.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry to barge in on you like this.” Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow at Combeferre, who shrugs.

“You wanna talk about it, Enj? I know you and R can have a hard time getting along sometimes…”

“A hard time getting along?!” Enjolras scoffs. “The first time we met, he flaked out on our history project and brought my grade down a whole letter, then acted like _I_ was crazy for being mad. He can’t commit to anything. And he’s always doing that thing where he just…smirks at you while you’re talking, like he’s just waiting for you to stop so he can completely tear whatever you were saying apart. He’s so fucking _smug_ about what an asshole he is. But he’s so smart? He’s just a…a smartass. A smartass who I can’t do this damn show without.” He flops down on the couch next to Courfeyrac, face drawn in frustration.

“I hate to say it, but you really _can’t_ do the show without him. You’re going to have to apologize about whatever you said at some point,” Courfeyrac points out.

“And it might not hurt to try and build some mutual respect there,” Combeferre adds. “You said yourself he’s smart; maybe try to engage him on a higher level than petty arguments, find something in common…or you could keep biting each other’s heads off,” he adds as Enjolras stares at him.

“No, you’re right. I should try to find some common ground or something. Courf, you live with him. What do we have in common?”

“Well…honestly? You’re both artistic, stubborn, and gay as fuck,” Courfeyrac replies, eyes twinkling.

“Yeah, that last part would’ve been nice to know before tonight, actually,” Enjolras grumbles.

“ _Oh?”_ Combeferre’s eyebrow arches in interest, but Enjolras doesn’t catch the inflection and shrugs it off.

“I’ll try to patch things up on Monday, I guess.”

* * *

 

“Hey, Grantaire, can I talk to you for a sec?” Enjolras is slightly out of breath from trying to catch up to the much taller boy, who had been pointedly ignoring him as he tried to catch his attention for the past five minutes.

“I have class in two minutes.”

Enjolras can’t stand the knot of guilt that’s been tightening in his stomach all weekend, so he forges ahead.

“I can walk and talk.” He increases his pace to keep up with Grantaire’s strides and takes a deep breath. “Listen, Grantaire, I was completely out of line the other day. I shouldn’t have made any assumptions about you like that. And I certainly didn’t mean to imply that you were useless. It’s just that it’s frustrating to have someone constantly shitting on everything you do, especially when that person never seems to do anything himself.” That’s not the direction that Enjolras intended to go with this little speech, but he’s spent far too long being mocked by his best friend’s brother, and something has opened the floodgates.

“This is my classroom.” Grantaire grabs the handle of the nearest door and opens it. Enjolras is about to turn around and go to his own class when one final thought pops into his head.

[“You’re always making fun of me for trying to do things or make a difference. And maybe I never _will_ make a difference. But at least I’m trying. And at least I _believe in something._ Which is something I’m not sure you’re even capable of.” He’s gone the moment the words are out of his mouth, and Grantaire watches him as he storms off. Under his breath, he mutters something barely audible to anyone passing by:](https://youtu.be/Eid4Vk4eutk)

[“ _I believe in you_.”](https://youtu.be/Eid4Vk4eutk)

* * *

 

An hour later, Grantaire receives a string of text messages so long that he spends the next five minutes scrolling through it. They ramble a bit, and he’s not entirely sure what the point is, but his resolve to stay angry melts away when he reaches the final texts:

_1:42 pm, Enjolras:_

You’re an incredibly talented and worthwhile human being, and I’m sorry if I’ve ever made it seem like I value you less than anyone else on our team.

_1:45 pm, Enjolras:_

I’m not really sure what else I can say, honestly.

_1:46 pm, Enjolras:_

I’m sorry.

_1:50 pm:_

God, Enjy, does it really take you twenty-three texts just to Apollo-gize? You can’t half-ass anything can you

_1:52 pm, Enjolras_

I take it all back you’re Taireible

And with that, Grantaire knows that the awful, optimistic voice in the back of his head is never going to let him stop hoping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Runaway Train  
> Artists: James @stopcallingmeapollo as Enjolras and Mitch @night-marius as Grantaire with Sarah @ispent20minutesonthis as Courfeyrac  
> Link: https://youtu.be/Eid4Vk4eutk


	6. Chapter 6

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Enjolras whispers to Joly. They’re seated in a middle row of the audience, watching Cosette and Marius run scenes two and four for the first time with blocking. In the background, Feuilly and Bahorel are measuring the stage in preparation for the building of the sets. Joly looks up in concern as Enjolras makes a pained face.

“You alright Enj?”

“Yeah, just...uterus troubles. I’ll be back in two seconds, just have them run it again and try to be louder if I’m not back when they finish.” Joly nods, and Enjolras exits the theatre as quickly as possible. As Marius and Cosette share a heartfelt moment onstage, the lights come up full-force and a crackle of feedback pulls them from their work.

“What’s going on up there?” Joly shouts. “You ok Bossuet?” There’s a faint, rather concerning sound from the booth, and then Eponine’s voice rings out.

“He fell over, and he kind of...turned  _ everything  _ on.” 

“I’m ok!” That’s Bossuet, his voice forcefully chipper. 

“He’s bleeding,” Eponine reports. “Not too badly, but he probably shouldn’t stay up here. It’ll get on the equipment.”Joly blanches. A few moments later, Eponine and Bossuet appear onstage; a small cut can be seen on Bossuet’s temple, and Joly is on the verge of fainting at the sight of it. “Do you wanna take him to the nurse’s office? I can hold down the fort for a couple minutes,” Eponine offers.

“Yeah. Tell Enjolras where we went, will you?” At Eponine’s nod, Joly wraps an arm around his boyfriend and quickly escorts him out of the theatre and toward the nurse’s office.

“So,” Eponine says, looking from Cosette to Marius.

“I’m Cosette,” Cosette says, offering her hand. Her smile is infectious, and Eponine finds that she’s making quick work of her cool, disaffected exterior.

“Yeah, I know. I sat behind you in Health last year.” Eponine shakes the other girl’s hand anyway, finding it as warm and light as she expected. “You were always wearing flower crowns.” Cosette smiles even wider at this acknowledgment of her singular fashion sense.

“Um, you’re Eponine, right?” Marius interjects awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Eponine replies, turning her attention toward him. He’s only an inch taller than her, so she can look straight into his eyes as she addresses him. “You’re cute.”

“I--you--what--I--I’m dating Cosette,” he sputters. Cosette giggles at his horrified response to the compliment.

“I meant as a couple, but feel free to take that individually as well.” Turning her attention behind Marius’s flushed face, Eponine notices that Bahorel and Feuilly have given up on their work in the absence of any authority figures. Instead, they appear to be playing a very tense game of “gay chicken.” Neither of them is willing to back down, and as they move to close the centimetre gap between their faces, Eponine gets a terrible idea.

“Hey Bahorel, catch!” She mimes throwing an object toward them,and Bahorel flinches, accidentally headbutting Feuilly rather than kissing him. Cosette gasps and Eponine cackles, and at that moment, Enjolras returns to find his light operator onstage with the actors--who are clearly not acting--and Feuilly bleeding profusely from his nose onto the stage as Bahorel stares at him in shock.

“I leave the room for  _ two minutes,”  _ he exclaims, making the assembled students jump. “Feuilly, go get cleaned up. Bahorel, you’re going to have to mop the stage--I don’t know what happened here but it’s obviously partially your fault. “ Bahorel opens his mouth to protest, then sees the look on Enjolras’s face and thinks better, instead going off in search of a mop. “Where the hell is Joly? Why aren’t you running your scenes?” All three of the remaining students try to explain at once, but Enjolras cuts them off. “No, you know what, I don’t even care, just get back to work, ok?” As she leaves the stage, Enjolras sees Eponine wink at a flabbergasted Marius. “Oh, and Eponine, save flirting for non-rehearsal time, please.”  _ What the hell is she thinking, flirting with Cosette’s boyfriend when she’s with Grantaire anyway? And what the hell am  _ I  _ thinking? That’s none of my business. The more concerning thing here  is the fact that Joly and Bossuet have gone missing and no actual work is getting done. _

Enjolras’s internal monologue continues on this track for about ten minutes, until the end of the rehearsal. Sighing, he calls for Marius and Cosette to stop.

“Alright, try to be off-book as soon as possible so we can run these scenes more effectively, but so far you’re doing pretty well. See you tomorrow,” he says.”Oh, and Eponine, I’m going to need you to stay for a few minutes and get the spotlight set up.”  _ Probably had a date with Grantaire or something,  _ he thinks as he catches her sighing at the clock.  _ Oh well, what do you expect, it’s theatre. Sometimes the show takes priority. _


	7. Chapter 7

“No puedo hacer esto, yo prefiero que no graduo. ¿Has oído su voz? ¿Lo has visto cuando canta? Es como un ángel jodido,” Grantaire is moaning to Courfeyrac as Feuilly and Bahorel struggle with a flat when Enjolras arrives at rehearsal the next day. He takes a look around and sighs. _Here we go again._ He is on the verge of clapping for everyone’s attention when Eponine appears storms onstage, lips pressed tightly together and eyes flashing wildly. She walks up to Joly, pulling him away from Jehan and leaning in close.

“I swear to God I will KILL Montparnasse if he comes near me again. _Huwag mo akong subukan. Kakatayin kanyang_ .” Enjolras glances at Marius, who is huddled in a corner with a book. His face is paler than usual, probably because of whatever Eponine just said; or possibly because Montparnasse has been experimenting with foundation again. Striding forward, Enjolras steps between Joly and Eponine. _Director, actor, human shield…what can’t I do, honestly?_

“What is going on?” he demands. Eponine takes a breath.

“This _anak ka ng puta_ just stole my fucking eyeliner and then had the fucking _gall_ to call _me_ a _bitch,”_ Eponine rants, pointing at Montparnasse, who is leaning against the flat Bahorel and Feuilly just erected. At that exact moment, with impeccable timing, the flat collapses, and Montparnasse tumbles down along with it. Feuilly stares down for a moment, then turns on his heel and leaves. Bahorel, for once the more present of the two, tugs Montparnasse up roughly, pulls an eyeliner stick from his pocket, tosses it to Eponine (who catches it in a surprisingly coordinated movement), and rushes off to find Feuilly.

“Um, Enjolras, would this be a good time to test the explosion sounds?” Bossuet asks softly from behind him.

“No, it would not be a good time to listen to explosions! Does this seem like a good time to listen to explosions? Look around you, Bossuet, does this look like the time to be listening to fucking explosions to you?”  Enjolras is screaming. He is being completely irrational. He is aware of these facts. And yet, the words keep pouring out; and although he knows he’ll regret it later, he doesn’t stop them. “Listen up, fuckers. I’ve had it up to here with all of you. You think I’m not talking about you?” He finds Marius, then Cosette, then Jehan, making eye contact with each member of the cast and crew as he casts about for anyone to turn his anger on. He decides that everyone will do. “I’m talking about you. Every single one of you has been nothing but selfish and uncooperative. No one is off-book; the sets are falling apart; you spend more time flirting with each other and goofing off than actually doing anything worthwhile.” Suddenly the burst of spiteful energy is gone, and his shoulders slump. “Do any of you even give a shit if this show happens?” He looks around again, but no one will make eye contact; even Courfeyrac looks down. “Fuck, guys, I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But I can’t do this by myself.” He swallows hard. “Look, um…everyone go home for today. We’ll get a fresh start tomorrow and try to get back on track.” He turns and heads out the door then, leaving his friends in stunned silence.

Once he’s out of the theatre, Enjolras practically runs home; ignoring his mother’s concerned questions, he makes his way to his room and shuts himself in. He doesn’t even bother to turn off the lights as he drops onto the bed; his pillow blocks out the light effectively, and after a few minutes he’s deep in an emotionally exhausted sleep.

* * *

 

A few hours later, Enjolras wakes to the sound of his phone buzzing. His face scrunched up against the light of the screen, he pokes at it until he can see his email. There, in a message from an address he doesn’t recognize, is a youtube link. Ordinarily clicking on the link would seem like a terrible idea, but in his present state it doesn’t occur to him to be concerned about viruses. [The youtube app stalls for a moment before a song begins to play](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZFREO54Enk).

“ _You have the cool, clear eyes of a seeker of wisdom and truth; yet there’s that upturned chin and that grin of impetuous youth. Oh, I believe in you…I believe in you.”_ It sounds like Frank Sinatra singing, and Enjolras can’t help but smile as he listens. He can’t imagine who out of his friends would have sent him this after his outburst. As Ol’ Blue Eyes declares that “ _When my faith in my fellow men all but falls apart, I’ve but to feel your hand grasping mine and I take heart,”_ Enjolras pulls himself out of bed and heads downstairs to make some notes on his script over a cup of tea. He takes his phone and a pair of earbuds with him, as well, starting the video over and listening to it several times before he calls it a night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter was "I Believe in You," from the musical How To Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. It was covered by Frank Sinatra.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZFREO54Enk


	8. Chapter 8

“Hey R, I’ve got a new song I want to work into the second scene.” Grantaire looks up from his music to see Combeferre crossing the stage toward him, glasses askew and arms full of papers. “I’m not sure if it’s quite right for the scene, though, so if you could wait for Enjolras to get here and work it with you, that would be great. I’ve got the music here somewhere…” He pauses, attempting to rifle through his papers without dropping them.

“You wanna put those on the piano?” Grantaire takes the stack from Combeferre, who smiles gratefully.

“Thanks! I got a little distracted and dropped everything on the way here…”

“Yeah, Courf has that effect on people,” Grantaire replies; Combeferre’s expression makes him laugh out loud. “What’d he do, grab your tie and pull you into a broom closet?” Ferre makes a choked sound in response, and Grantaire looks back at the papers on the piano. “Is this it? _Something’s Gotta Give?”_ He sets the music in front of the piece he’d been studying, sliding onto the bench and flipping through it.

“I thought it would be nice, but I’m not sure,” Combeferre reiterates. “Oh, Enj! There you are. I want you to try this out with R. I’ve highlighted your bits. Tell me if you think it’ll work for the second scene.” Enjolras leaves his bag on a chair in the front row, clambering onto the stage and taking a seat next to Grantaire. “I have to go talk to…uh…Jehan about costumes, but uh, take it away, R!”

Thinking for a moment, Grantaire sets his fingers on the keys, careful not to brush Enjolras’s arm with his own. Then he begins, the familiar old song flowing naturally.

“ _[When an irresistible force, such as you, meets an old immovable object like me, you can bet, as sure as you live…Something’s gotta give, something’s gotta give, something’s gotta give](https://youtu.be/NN0WhV0VCxI).” _ Enjolras is watching Grantaire intently as he sings and draws the upbeat melody out of the old piano in front of him. He becomes so engrossed in his study of his friend that he finds himself being nudged in the side insistently as he nearly misses his entrance.

“ _When an irrepressible smile, such as yours, warms an old implacable heart, such as mine, don’t say no because I insist! Somewhere, somehow, someone’s gotta be kissed.”_ Grantaire isn’t reading the music anymore; the look on Enjolras’s face as he sways along to the music is too good to miss. This time it’s Enjolras who points at the music as he stops singing, waiting for Grantaire to take over.

“ _So, en garde, who knows what the fates might have in store from their vast mysterious sky; I’ll try hard ignorin’ those lips I adore, but how long can anyone try?”_ Enjolras smiles as he joins him for the end:

“ _Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight it with all of our might, chances are some heavenly star-spangled night, we’ll find out just as sure as we live…Something’s gotta give, something’s gotta give, something’s gotta give.”_ The two boys sit for a while, smiling, as the final notes fade out. It’s only when Enjolras realizes that his leg is pressed up a bit too close to Grantaire’s that he breaks the silence, standing as he does so.

“It’s a great song, but it really doesn’t fit the show, I don’t think.” He looks expectantly at Grantaire.

“What? Oh. Yeah, not really. It sounds nice with your voice, though. Talent show, maybe?” He’s joking, but the look in Enjolras’s eye is unmistakable.

“That would be great! We could just keep meeting up once a week after the show ends, the talent show isn’t that long after.”

“Woah, there, Enjy, one thing at a time,” Grantaire teases. “Rehearsal starts in five minutes. You might want to get this show done before you start planning your next project.” He sobers for a moment. “Besides, I thought you were going to try and get a gender neutral bathroom or something? When are you going to have time to put together a talent show act with me?” It’s less of a question than a statement. _This was always temporary._ Enjolras’s face falls and he nods.

“Oh, yeah, you’re right. And I’m sure you’ve been looking forward to having your Friday nights back.” They avoid eye contact for a minute before the theatre door opens and Cosette, Marius, and Courfeyrac troop in. Courfeyrac is noticeably disheveled, and from the look on Combeferre’s face when he trails in after the trio, the cause is less than innocent. Enjolras raises his eyebrows at Grantaire, a barely-suppressed grin tugging at his lips. Grantaire chuckles softly and shouts at Courfeyrac.

“Is that a hickey?” Courf’s hand flies to his neck, and Combeferre looks mortified. “Oh, never mind, just a shadow. Nice reaction though, you two.” He turns to find Enjolras doubled over, silent laughter wracking his body.

“Al—alright, everybody, I um—I want to give Eponine a chance to run this part with lights, so if you could please go to places for the top of scene one, and please, _please_ try it without scripts if you can. Or not. Great. Ok, whenever you’re ready, Ep!” The lights onstage go down, then come back up, a bit warmer this time.

The first scene goes smoothly until Cosette finishes her song and crosses to Marius.

“Hey, Eponine? The song is over, we don’t need a spot on Cosette anymore.” The spotlight shifts slightly, and Marius blinks, blinded. “No, I’m not saying—Marius doesn’t need a spotlight, you don’t— _no,_ not both of them, just—“

“Eponine, turn off the damn spotlight!” Grantaire calls from his place at the piano. It clicks off, and the sound of Filipino cursing can be heard in the booth.

“Alright, well, let’s call that good for now, and just keep going with the scene. We can fix that opening piece tomorrow, Eponine,” Enjolras announces. The lights come up full-force once again, and they continue their run through the end of the act. After the actors have left, Enjolras walks over to retrieve his sheet music from atop the piano.

“What was all that about, do you think?” He asks Grantaire.

“It’s hard to flirt with the actors from the booth,” he replies. Enjolras lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Is _everyone_ in this production in love with each other?”

“Well, not quite. The almighty Apollo would never stoop so low, I’m sure. And teaching you to sing this stuff well enough not to embarrass us both has taken up any time I had for romance, so…”

“Oh, fuck off,” Enjolras rolls his eyes, snorting affectionately. “So are you and Eponine not…uh…you know. Then?”

“What, dating? No, that wouldn’t work very well. She’s a little young, and there’s also the fact that she’s pining after Cosette _and_ Marius, and I’m…” _spending way too much time sitting way too close to you._ “She’s not my type.” Enjolras seems to accept this explanation, dropping the subject and gathering up his music. The fact that he and Enjolras just spent the last hour flirting with each other (and Combeferre really knows how to write sexual tension) doesn’t seem to have affected Enjolras in the slightest; Grantaire, however, finds himself in dire need of a cold shower and about nine hours of hard physical labour to erase the memory of Enjolras’s hand on his during scene three. “If you don’t need me, I’m gonna head out.”

“Alright! See you tomorrow.” Enjolras jumps off the stage and stuffs his music into his bag, watching Grantaire leave through the split in the curtains. “Oh, and R, can I get a ride to your house with you? Courf and Ferre are going to Ferre’s house again and they’re not going by yours on the way this time.”

“Yeah, sure. We can just head over right after rehearsal.” It’s not until he’s halfway home that Grantaire is hit with a realization: _he called me R._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Somethin's Gotta Give  
> Artists: Mitchell @night-marius as Grantaire & James @stopcallingmeapollo as Enjolras  
> Link: https://youtu.be/NN0WhV0VCxI


	9. Chapter 9

“Bro, your house is _huge.”_ Feuilly gazes up at Bahorel’s home in amazement, his grip on his backpack straps tightening a little in apprehension. Bahorel grins.

“My dad gets the contracts to build all the churches in the area, so we can afford a church-sized house I guess. Just don’t tell Enjolras; the amount of electricity it takes to light this place would freak him out.” Feuilly laughs, and the two boys walk up the steps together.

Inside, the house screams “rich Evangelical” so loudly that Feuilly almost has to cover his ears. The walls are covered with ornate crosses and framed quotes, a notable one citing _Leviticus._ Feuilly wonders how someone as easy-going and liberal (and possibly queer—he can never quite tell with Bahorel) could have come from this environment.

“Relly, is that you? Oh, and here’s your little friend!” Surprisingly, Bahorel’s mother is only an inch or two taller than Feuilly—her son towers over her, although they have the same friendly demeanor and presence. “Feuilly, right? Bahorel didn’t tell me how pretty you are,” she prattles on as she leads them into the kitchen. Behind her back, Bahorel makes an almost comically apologetic face, and Feuilly shrugs; there’s not a much a trans boy with long hair can do to pass, and it was clearly meant well.

“You have a lovely home,” he comments, gazing around the spacious kitchen and wondering how much food it must be able to hold. His current foster home could probably fit inside half of the ground floor of this house.

“Why, thank you, dear!” Bahorel’s mother smiles. “You’re so polite. Much better than that awful boy Relly brought over last week…what was his name, dear?”

“Grantaire,” Bahorel replies, rolling his eyes. Feuilly snorts.

“Ah, yes, well um… _Relly_ here can have questionable taste in friends, I guess,” he says, trying his best to sound serious. “I hope I’m a good influence though.” Bahorel draws a finger across his throat as his mother turns around to retrieve something from her enormous refrigerator, and Feuilly’s tongue darts out, returning to its home just in time as Bahorel’s mother lays a platter of assorted fruits and vegetables on the counter.

“I think you seem like a very charming young lady,” she says. “Well here’s a snack for the two of you, and dinner will be at six. The tools your father brought for you are in the garage,” she says to Bahorel. “Have fun, busy bees!” Feuilly watches her leave with a bemused expression.

“ _That’s_ your mom?”

“She’s a…busy bee,” Bahorel shrugs. “I dunno man, she means well, and she feeds me, and we usually get along. Even if she is pretty conservative.”

“I kept expecting her to tell us to ‘leave room for Jesus’ or something,” Feuilly laughs.

“Oh, trust me, before the day is out she will. I’m pretty sure she drove away my first girlfriend saying stuff like that. My ex-boyfriend, however…” He grins. “Let’s just say, no one in my household expects Jesus to be present when two guys are having a sleepover. Heteronormativity, serving the queers once again.” Feuilly registers the word “boyfriend” with what feels suspiciously like a heart palpitation. Bahorel sets his backpack on the counter and opens it, drawing a copy of the script out from the disorganized depths. “Enjolras wrote us some notes on the set pieces we need, wanna go over it while we eat and then get started?” Feuilly nods, hopping onto a tall stool opposite Bahorel at the counter. “Alright, so aside from the wall, we need some sort of bar-type thing…I’ve got a lot of scrap wood that we can put together for that.”

“How about this thing here?” Feuilly points at an indecipherable scribble in the corner of the page.

“Oh, that’s just a dick R drew. I think Enj was trying to turn it into a bird.” Feuilly snorts again and Bahorel smiles. “Bro, you’re adorable.”

“Shut up.” Feuilly is _not_ blushing as they bend over the script, trying to decipher Enjolras’s incredibly detailed notes. Nope. Not at all.

* * *

 

“Hey, do you have the script?” Bahorel asks. He and Feuilly have been nailing wood to a frame for the past hour, and they’re both out of breath as he puts down his hammer. “I want to know if the audience is gonna see the back of this.” Feuilly glances around.

“I think we must’ve left it in the kitchen. I can go get it.” He straightens up, stretching. “I should probably go to the bathroom and take a binder break anyway.” Setting his hammer on the floor next to Bahorel, he makes his way back into the house. When he reaches the kitchen, he finds Bahorel’s diminutive mother bent over the script, a concerned look on her face.

“Oh, hi, Feuilly! How’s it going out there?” She asks, looking up.

“Pretty well, ma’am. I think we’ll be done a lot faster than we planned. I just need to check something in the script real quick.” Feuilly reaches for it, but Bahorel’s mother is faster, snatching the script out of his reach.

“Actually, I think I’m going to hold on to this for a while. I have some questions about the content that I want to ask the administration at Musaine High about. Why don’t you go tell Bahorel to come in and help with dinner while you wash up?” Her voice is still cheery, but strained, and Feuilly has a feeling the questions she’s planning on asking aren’t about how to buy tickets.

“Uh…yeah, sure,” he says, backing out of the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.” Practically sprinting back to the garage, Feuilly skids to a halt next to Bahorel. “Dude, your mom read the script and she does _not_ look happy.” Bahorel’s eyes widen.

“Oh shit. How much did she read? If she got to that one part with the pianist and the bartender…”

“She said she wanted to talk to someone at the school about it.” Feuilly watches as Bahorel’s fists ball up, his eyes squeezed shut as he tries not to panic.

“Shit. Dammit. Oh my god, she’s gonna completely screw us over.” Bahorel stands up, his shadow falling over his smaller friend as he heads toward the house. “Fuck…I’m sorry, Feuilly. You should probably fake a call from your foster parents and go home, I don’t think you want to be around for this discussion.” Feuilly nods, pulling out his phone.

“I’m sorry, I should’n’t have left the script on the counter…I should’ve known she’d react badly.” Bahorel stops and turns around suddenly.

“No, man, this—this isn’t your fault. I should’ve been more careful with this. I’ll tell Enjolras that too, it’s not your fault _at all_ though. Ok?” The intensity in his voice startles Feuilly.

“Yeah—yeah, ok. I’m just gonna let Mrs. Simplice know that I need a ride home.” He holds up his phone.

“Ok. I’m sorry I have to throw you out like this but…”

“No, yeah, I get it. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Well I should go talk to my mom…” Bahorel trails off as Feuilly steps forward on impulse, hugging him tightly.

“I’m sure it’ll be ok,” he mumbles comfortingly against his friend’s chest. Bahorel squeezes him back for a moment before letting go.

“Leave room for Jesus, bro.” Bahorel’s voice is strained, but he forces a smile, and Feuilly returns it as best he can. _God, I’m fucked…_


	10. Chapter 10

“Combeferre and Enjolras to the Main Office, please.” The intercom screeches, feedback playing over the  _ oooooh- _ ing of the AP Biology class. Enjolras glances nervously at Combeferre, stomach suddenly twisted in knots.

“There’s not much time left in sixth period, so just take your things with you,” the teacher says, barely glancing up from her computer. The two boys put their notebooks into their bags and head out the door. Combeferre studies his friend’s face carefully as they walk down the hall, laying a hand gently on Enjolras’s shoulder.

“Are you alright? I’m sure it’s nothing bad, there’s no reason for us to be in trouble.” Enjolras smiles wanly with gratitude.

“Yeah, I know. Think whoever called us down to the office will give me a minute to beat up my anxiety before we arrive?”

“Probably not. But I’ll be there with you, and so far I’ve never been in any kind of major trouble, so we’ll be fine. Promise.” Combeferre slips his hand into Enjolras’s, giving him a comforting squeeze.  “It’s probably just something about show scheduling,” he adds as they enter the office.

“Not quite.” Javert is waiting for them in the office, a concerningly self-satisfied look on his face. “Step into my office, boys.” Enjolras swallows hard; his grip on Combeferre’s hand is almost painful. “Sit down. I recently had a talk with a concerned parent who brought to my attention the… _ homoeroticism  _ you’re planning on presenting on our stage.” Javert makes his way around his desk, leaning against it and practically leering at the students sitting before him. “This is simply unacceptable. Our school prides itself on being a safe space for all people. Meaning that we cannot possibly provide funds for something that offends the sensibilities of many members of the Musaine community. Of course, we’re required to allow you to have the space since you’re the only official performing arts program currently running at the school, but I think you’ll both agree that a play with no budget isn’t exactly possible.” He smiles condescendingly, and Combeferre can feel Enjolras’s body tensing up next to him.

“Thanks for letting us know, Mr. Javert. We’ll get back to you about what we plan to do,” Combeferre says quickly.

“You’ll get back to me?” Javert scoffs. “I don’t think you understand. You cannot put on a play with openly homosexual characters at this school.” Enjolras stands, jaw set and eyes blazing.

“Like I said,  _ we’ll get back to you.”  _ Combeferre shoots Enjolras a  _ Keep it together  _ look and stands up as well. “Come on, Enj, he’s not worth it.” Enjolras tears his gaze away from Javert’s and turns on his heel, Combeferre rushing out after him.

“Enjolras, come back! Where are you going? Enj—Enj, we have class!” Enjolras slows down for a moment, but doesn’t turn around.

“Look, Ferre, I think I just. Need a minute. Ok? I’ll see you at rehearsal.” Combeferre can tell from years of experience that Enjolras is about to cry; he also knows that when Enjolras asks to be alone, he needs to be.

“I’ll leave my phone on if you need me,” he says softly. Enjolras disappears around a corner and Combeferre turns around, resolving to use the next ten minutes to get a head start on the night’s homework.

Enjolras wanders the school for what feels like hours before he finds himself in the backstage hallway. The previous period has ended, and he knows he shouldn’t skip his last class, but somehow he can’t bring himself to climb all the stairs the history wing—he’ll be tardy anyway, and it’s nothing he doesn’t know already. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, retrieving the key to the theatre and letting himself in.  He breathes in the still air, finding solace in the peaceful solitude. Finding the only empty corner behind the curtain, he curls himself up until he’s as small as possible, his body wracked with sobs as the scene in Javert’s office runs through his head over and over.  _ There’s nothing I can do…we worked so fucking hard and there’s nothing I can do. And I didn’t even tell Javert off, I just stood there…. _

He’s not sure how long he’s been there when he hears the door open, someone entering the theatre and making their way to the stage. Wiping his face on his sleeve, Enjolras takes a deep breath to steady himself and stands, curious to see who has found his hiding spot.


	11. Chapter 11

“Grantaire, your counselor needs to see you in his office.” Mr. Fauchelevant hands Grantaire a bright green slip of paper as he enters the classroom. Shifting his bag higher on his shoulder, Grantaire takes the slip.

“Well, I think we both know what that means. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. F.,” Grantaire says cheerfully, turning and exiting the room.

“Have a nice day, Grantaire,” Mr. Fauchelevant sighs.

Grantaire walks down the now-empty halls with a weight on his shoulders. Of course, it could be the massive amount of sheet music his backpack now contains in addition to his notebooks; but mostly Grantaire suspects that he’s exhausted from being forced to work on Enjolras’s damn show three days a week. Pausing briefly to knock on his counselor’s door, he pokes his head inside the office and slips inside.

“You rang?” Fantine looks up from her computer and smiles.

“Grantaire! This should only take a second. I know you were looking for an art class for that last graduation requirement, and someone just dropped out of Pottery, so there’s a space. It’s a little basic for your skill level, perhaps, but that’s what happens when you don’t show up to any of your electives for three years in a row.” Grantaire grins sheepishly.

“So this would mean I don’t have to do the school play anymore?” Fantine nods.

“Yep, all your requirements would be covered. So should I switch you in? You just won’t have American Lit anymore,” she replies, examining Grantaire’s schedule.

“Yes, for the love of god. Thanks man.”

“You’re welcome, bruh,” Fantine says teasingly. “Now you should probably get to class.” As he leaves the counseling centre, Grantaire turns down the hall to the back entrance to the theatre. Jiggling the door handle for a moment, he manages to open the door and, checking to see that no one is watching, heads backstage.

_ I’m going to miss this.  _ The theatre is silent, and there’s a stillness in the air that you can’t find anywhere else in the school. Grantaire takes a seat on the piano bench, leaning against the keyboard and looking out across the audience.  Taking a deep breath, he opens his bag and pulls out the folder full of music that Combeferre gave him before rehearsals began. Setting it on the piano, he tries to think of a way to tell Enjolras he’s quitting the show.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras’s voice cuts through the silence, and Grantaire nearly falls off the bench. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. What’re you doing here?” In the darkness Grantaire can’t quite see his face, but there’s something in Enjolras’s voice that sounds… _ off. _

“I was just…um…wait, what are  _ you  _ doing here? Don’t you have class?”  _ Tell him you’re quitting! _

“I needed to think,” Enjolras replies, sitting down and leaning against the side of the piano. “Our budget just got cut. Like, completely. We have no money.” Grantaire frowns.

“What? Why? How?”

“Javert says the school can’t put funds toward something that might offend conservative parents. We’re going to have to completely rework the script just to keep the theatre reservation, and I have no idea how we’ll get the costumes and sets together without any money. I—I don’t know if we can do this.” His voice is shaking a little, and Grantaire looks down in concern.

“Look, Apollo, don’t get worked up. I’m sure we can get some chairs and stuff together from people’s houses, and Montparnasse would never admit it but they can actually sew pretty well, so we can get them to help Jehan make some costumes. For Pete’s sake, you  _ blackmailed me  _ into doing this; don’t tell me the Vice Principal is going to be the reason you quit.”  _ What the fuck are you doing? Let this happen! You won’t even have to tell him you’re quitting… _

“Thank you, R.” Enjolras sniffs, and Grantaire finds himself laying a hand on his shoulder. “And um…thank you for helping with this. We really can’t do it without you.”

“Yeah, well. Not like I have a choice,” Grantaire grumbles. “As long as we’re here, you wanna go over the finale for today’s rehearsal?”

“Yeah, sure, just. Give me a minute.” Wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands, Enjolras stands and faces Grantaire. “Ok! Let’s see that part Ferre wanted Marius and Courf to sing—you’re going to have to play pretty loud, I don’t want anyone hearing them.” Grantaire chuckles, and Enjolras smiles back.

“Ok, here we go… _ Just in time, I found you just in time…” God, I’m so fucking screwed. _


	12. Chapter 12

Enjolras looks out across the audience, where the cast and crew of _Last Nights in London_ sit. From his perch on the edge of the stage, he can see how the tension in the room is manifesting in each of his friends:

Combeferre and Courfeyrac watch him silently from the end of the front row. No doubt they are trying to read in his expression what the emergency meeting is about. Combeferre has Courfeyrac’s hand firmly in his own, and Courf is sitting unusually still.

In contrast, the opposite end of the row is all movement. Jehan is arranging Cosette’s hair into ever more elaborate braids, and Marius is tapping his finger on the armrest between him and his girlfriend in a repetitive pattern. _Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat…_

In the back row, Eponine and Musichetta are deep in whispered conversation. In front of them, Joly is breathing deeply as Bossuet attempts to untangle his shoelaces from his partner’s. Montparnasse is on the ground near them, and Enjolras has a feeling he knows how the laces got tangled in the first place.

Off a ways, in the stage right section, Bahorel and Feuilly sit in uncharacteristic silence. Feuilly glances over at Bahorel when he thinks he isn’t looking, and Bahorel stares straight ahead, brow furrowed.

A movement near the entrance distracts Enjolras from his study of the Musaine Drama Club, as Grantaire slips in just as the final bell rings. He gives Enjolras a wave and, rather than taking a seat by Bahorel as Enjolras expected, makes his way down the aisle until he’s standing next to him. They’re about the same height with Enjolras sitting on the edge of the stage, and Grantaire’s eyes meet his immediately.

“How’re you holding up, Chief?” He asks softly.

“I’m alright.” Enjolras manages a small smile. “I spent the last period making a plan in the library.”

“Who’s the delinquent now?” Grantaire teases. “You’ve really got to stop skipping class, E.”

“You skipped Seventh to rehearse with me! And I think _you’re_ getting soft. Those last two nicknames weren’t even remotely offensive,” Enjolras shoots back. “I should probably start this meeting, huh?” Grantaire nods, then reaches out impulsively and sets his hand on Enjolras’s.

“Hey. It’ll be fine. We’re not going to quit just because some asshole says to,” he says softly. Enjolras looks down at R’s hand in surprise, but doesn’t move away immediately; when he stands, he gently slips his own away.

“Thanks, R. Ok, everybody, we’ve got a problem. It’s nothing we can’t deal with, but I want everyone to understand what we’re getting ourselves into before we move forward.” Suddenly he can feel eleven sets of eyes on him, and the knowledge that they are all depending on him makes him straighten up, forcing his voice to stay as strong and clear as possible. “Combeferre and I were called into Javert’s office today. Apparently, someone complained, and he’s pulling our funding and school support because of the gay characters.”

“ _What?”_ Eponine’s voice cuts through the silence, and suddenly everyone is talking

“Can he do that?”

“That has to be illegal.”

“This is what happens when you say ‘Macbeth’ onstage,” Bossuet moans.

“How did he find out, anyway?”

“It was my fault.” Bahorel directs his answer not toward Montparnasse, who asked the question, but to Enjolras. “I left the script out and my mom read it, and then she called Javert.” He licks his lips, which suddenly feel very dry. “I’m sorry.” Feuilly puts an arm around him as he sits down again, a lump in his throat as he remembers the ongoing conversation he and his parents have had over the past three days.

“Bahorel, it’s not your fault if your mom’s an ass,” Grantaire says. There is a ripple of nods and “yeah!”s, and Enjolras faces Bahorel.

“Honestly, Javert was bound to find out sometime. And it’s not like _you_ reported us. I don’t think anyone could blame you for this; we should have seen it coming.” Enjolras turns back to the group at large once he sees Bahorel straighten up in his chair, the weight lifted from his shoulders. “Anyway, it happened, and now we have to figure out what to do. I came up with a plan, but it’s probably going to get a lot of us in trouble; I want to say right now that any of you can quit at any time, and no one will blame you.” The looks from his friends are more concerned now. “We’ve been working on this show for a month. And yeah, it’s been hard, but each and every one of us has put our heart and soul into it, and I don’t want that to go to waste. So we’re still going to put on the show. We’re just going to have to be _really sneaky_ about it.” He looks at Combeferre, whose brow is furrowed in thought. “Ferre, I need you to write a new version of the script that’s aggressively heterosexual. It doesn’t have to be good, but it does have to be believable. We’ll give it to Javert in a couple of days and tell him we still want the theatre for rehearsals and performances and such.”

“Aggressively heterosexual. Got it,” Combeferre says blithely.

“Feuilly and Bahorel, I need you to get loans and donations of furniture from people’s families, thrift stores…wherever you can think of. We don’t have money to build sets anymore, so we’ll have to take what we can get.” Bahorel nods.

“Got it, Chief.”

“Jehan, we now have no budget for costumes. I’m not sure how much you were able to put together already, but it looks like you’ll have to go into the school’s costume shop for the rest.” Jehan shudders involuntarily, but then Marius pipes up from his place by Cosette.

“My grandfather owns a chain of dry cleaning businesses. We could probably get whatever costumes we want to use cleaned there for free if I ask.” Marius has never been kissed quite so enthusiastically before.

“Jehan, can we keep the PDA to a minimum? Thanks,” Enjolras calls out. “Anyway…Montparnasse, as far as makeup goes, I know we really need new foundation, but obviously I can’t make that happen now. I know you have a way of um… _finding_ things, though, so…”

“Ah, yes, _finding things._ My specialty,” Montparnasse drawls, looking up from their phone. “The world is my buy none, get one free store…” they pause, and everyone shifts uncomfortably, avoiding their gaze. “I think I can work something out for you.” Enjolras nods his appreciation and moves on.

“Obviously, none of this goes beyond this room; as far as any of you know, next month we’re producing the world’s most hetero play. Understood?” Various sounds of assent echo through the theatre. “In that case, let’s get this rehearsal going! Places for scene five.”

“Thank you places!”

As the students scramble to get their entrances or perform their various duties, Enjolras hops off the stage and looks up at Grantaire.

“Hey, R—I just wanted to say…thank you. I think I would have given up if you hadn’t talked to me today. I know how you feel about me” Grantaire’s heart beats a little faster for a moment “and about this production, but you really helped me. So thanks.” He smiles, and Grantaire finds himself smiling back—not the usual smug smirk he reserves for those times when Enjolras is coming off as a bit too visionary, but a kind, genuine smile. And if there’s a tinge of disappointment behind it, Enjolras is too high off his success to notice.

“Anything for you, E.” He stares down at Enjolras for a moment, letting the feeling of positive attention from him sink in like sunlight warming his skin.

“We should probably get onstage, I called places a while go.”

“Oh shit, yeah. Need help getting up there, shortstop?” The eye roll he gets in response makes Grantaire laugh.

“Ok, from the top, and no one talk to Grantaire for the rest of the day because he’s _fucking_ _rude.”_

* * *

 

Feuilly and Bahorel sit quietly in the wings, waiting for Enjolras to announce that the run is over and the scenery should be reset. Bahorel is clearly exhausted, and the slump in his shoulders is so uncharacteristic that Feuilly can’t help but feel for him.

“Hey, bro, are you ok?” He nudges Bahorel’s arm, pulling him from whatever train of thought he’d been following.

“Uh…well, that’s debatable, to be honest.” Bahorel’s voice is heavy. “My mom grilled me on why I was doing the show, and I kind of ended up coming out, and not in the way I would’ve liked to. I—I kind of shouted it. Loudly. While we were standing on the front porch. So now my entire neighbourhood knows my mother raised a queer son.” Feuilly grimaces sympathetically. “I don’t know what I expected, but she and my dad decided to pull all my privileges. No more internet except schoolwork, and I’m basically grounded until I turn heterosexual or go to college, I guess.”

“Man, that sucks.” Feuilly can’t quite find the words to express exactly how much he sympathizes with Bahorel, but Bahorel seems to understand.

“The thing is, even though they’re acting really shitty, it makes me feel a little better not to have to lie anymore. I felt kinda guilty about dating people who weren’t girls when they didn’t know.” Feuilly nods.

“That makes sense.”

“My mom can’t quite wrap her head around liking multiple genders, though. She wanted to know why I was flirting with ‘that cute girl I brought home’ if I thought I was gay.” He looks down at Feuilly. “You’re the cute girl in that sentence, oddly enough.” Feuilly laughs.

“Well she’s way off on a lot of things, then. I’m not a girl, you’re not flirting with me…”

“Actually,” Bahorel interjects, “She wasn’t wrong about all of it.” Feuilly raises an eyebrow.

“Dude, if that was you flirting, you’re absolute shit at it.”

“Wanna teach me how to flirt, then?” Bahorel wiggles his eyebrows ridiculously, and Feuilly snorts.

“Oh god, you really do need help. First off, you might want to actually ask me out.” Bahorel grins.

“In that case, how do you feel about flirting over coffee? Before rehearsal tomorrow, maybe?”

“Sounds great,” Feuilly says, smiling.


	13. Chapter 13

**_Hell Week._ **

No one is quite sure who first started referring to the final four rehearsals with such an ominous name, but it certainly feels appropriate. The Musaine Drama Club is three days into Tech, and their collective hours of sleep for the week are in the midrange double-digits. Six hour rehearsals are starting to wear on even the most veteran actors. Courfeyrac has taken to curling up with a blanket behind the bar onstage rather than wasting time driving home after rehearsal. Marius and Cosette, meanwhile, can be found fast asleep together in the booth while Eponine pretends not to know where they’ve gotten to during every break Enjolras affords the cast. Feuilly and Bahorel have moved, repaired, and repainted every piece of scenery at least four times, and if Enjolras didn’t look as terrifying as he did on no sleep, Bahorel swears he would actually fight him. Grantaire’s humour has gone from punny to decidedly mean-spirited, and Jehan and Montparnasse barricade themselves in the costume shop the minute everyone has changed into hair and makeup—if Enjolras didn’t know better, he’d say that the shop smelled faintly of marijuana afterward (although knowing Jehan, it could just as well be incense). Even Bossuet has become snippy, as every time one microphone turns on, another seems to short out.

So when Combeferre and Joly arrive with as many cups of coffee as they can carry, even Enjolras can’t deny his exhausted team a break.

“Alright, everybody, take ten! But then I need to see the whole second act again, and this time hopefully with working sound. We only have one rehearsal left after this, we have to make it count!” No one is listening after the phrase ‘take ten,’ so Enjolras temporarily admits defeat and takes a seat in a far corner of the audience, pressing his palms against his eyes before taking a long sip from his water bottle. When he looks up, Grantaire is sitting next to him, holding out a Starbucks cup.

“Thought you could use it.” Grantaire is looking even messier than usual somehow, despite the shirt and tie Jehan put him in. His hair is greasy from continuous nights of falling into bed without a shower, and Enjolras imagines he doesn’t look much better.

“I don’t drink caffeine.” He holds up his water bottle. “I’ve been guzzling tea like crazy, though. My voice is just about to die.”

“You’re telling me you’ve gotten through almost twenty-four hours of rehearsal without _any_ caffeine?” Grantaire’s eyes widen and he whistles softly. “Incredible.” He looks down at the cup in his hand and then drinks it himself, downing it one impressive gulp.

“Careful, you’re going to crash,” Enjolras warns. “I’ve seen it before. Finals week last year, Combeferre tried to go the whole week without sleeping. He ended up falling over in the middle of his science presentation and no one could wake him until the next day.” Grantaire shakes his head sympathetically.

“I know what I’m doing. Tonight I’m going to go home and shower, then sleep as long as I can. I already forged excuses for me and Courf, so neither of us has to show up to class tomorrow. Our dad doesn’t really check up on attendance until report card season, so we should be safe.”

“Doesn’t your mom ever get notifications about that stuff?” Enjolras asks. “I mean even if she doesn’t live with you she must check in sometimes.”

“That would be a little hard, considering I haven’t heard from her since I was seven,” Grantaire says mirthlessly. “She took off when she found out about Courf. Seems like a pretty good trade to me, though. One terrible mother for one tone-deaf, gay-as-fuck half-brother. I assume she went back to Italy since she had no reason to stay.”

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. Courf never told me what happened with her, I mean I assumed your parents got divorced but I didn’t know…sorry.” Enjolras says awkwardly. “That sucks.”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean it was a long time ago though, I barely think about her. She was always trying to get me to be quiet. ‘ _Cantare al suo interno, bambino_ . ’” He sees the confusion on Enjolras’s face and translates quickly. “ _’Sing on the inside_.’ I guess I was pretty obnoxious even as a kid.” Enjolras laughs in spite of himself.

“That’s horrible. But it must’ve been nice having Courf around. He kind of makes everything better.” At that moment they can hear Courfeyrac’s voice drifting toward them, a horribly off-key rendition of _Que Sera, Sera_ filling the theatre as the rest of the cast groans dramatically.

“Yeah. He taught me Spanish and I taught him Italian, and now we use it to piss off our dad.” Grantaire grins.

“That sounds like you,” Enjolras says dryly. “I used to have a hard time believing you were related, but I think I can see it now. You’re both good with people, and you have a similar sense of humour. And you have the same hair, of course,” he adds.

“Excuse me, Courf uses about a thousand products. This is all natural, baby,” Grantaire says, shaking his curls dramatically. Enjolras actually giggles, a combination of sleep deprivation and happiness at finally having made friends with Grantaire loosening him up.

“Hey, it’s been fifteen minutes! Do you guys wanna come down from the makeout corner and get this rehearsal going again?” Enjolras and Grantaire both jump at the sudden intrusion of Eponine’s voice.

“The _what?”_ Enjolras demands.

“The makeout corner. Joly and Musichetta were up there about an hour ago...” Both of the boys are out of their seats in an instant, the looks on their faces causing Courfeyrac to double over with mirth.

“Ok, break’s over! Places for the top of Act Two,” Enjolras calls as he and Grantaire make their way toward the stage.

“Thank you places!”

* * *

 

Nine thirty pm, and Enjolras has finally finished giving everyone notes for the next day. As he watches the crew reset the stage and the actors pack up their things, he feels a long shadow fall over him.

“Look, Ferre, I know, I’ll try to get some rest. I just don’t want to go home until everyone else does,” he sighs exasperatedly.

“I’m not Ferre, but you really should go home.” He looks up in surprise and finds himself gazing into Grantaire’s startlingly green eyes.

“Oh, sorry, R. You’re both tall.” He yawns, eyes closing for a moment with exhaustion.

“A stunningly accurate observation,” Grantaire replies. “Who’s driving you home?”

“No one. I’m walking.” Enjolras sways a bit when his feet hit the ground after jumping off the stage, and he grasps the nearest solid object for support. Grantaire’s faded green jacket is surprisingly soft.

“Like hell you are. C’mon, Apollo, I’m driving you home.’” Enjolras tries to protest, but the words don’t quite make it from his brain to his mouth. He manages a mildly irritated sound, and Grantaire looks on in fond amusement. “Can you make it to the car or do I have to carry you?” Enjolras frowns, but remains upright, so Grantaire grabs both of their backpacks from the front row seats. They leave the theatre together and somehow end up in the parking lot, and then in Grantaire’s car.

“Why do you keep calling me Apollo?”

The question comes out of nowhere; for the past five minutes, Enjolras has been dozing, his head pressed against the window.

“I live to antagonize you, Apollo.” He glances over at his companion, who is sitting up now, somewhat alert.

“No, that’s not it. We’re friends now. If you just did it because you knew it annoyed me you would’ve stopped.” This time, Grantaire is quiet for a moment before he replies.

“It suits you,” he says simply. “This is your place, right?” They’ve pulled up in front of a large yellow house with two cars parked outside. Enjolras glances out the window and nods.

“Yeah. Thanks for the ride, Dionysus.” Grantaire raises an eyebrow, considering this reversal for a moment.

“Fair enough. I’ll see you tomorrow, E.”


	14. Chapter 14

It’s three fifteen, and Grantaire is late to his scheduled time with the piano in the theatre. He only gets half an hour between the end of school and rehearsal to work alone, and with the show opening tomorrow, he needs it. When he reaches the back door to the theatre, he pauses, listening. There’s a faint sound coming through the wall from the stage. With the door open he can hear it more clearly; someone is at the piano.

Sighing in irritation, Grantaire drops his backpack next to a stack of flats and makes his way to the  join  in the curtains. He slips between them as the halting notes on the piano pick up slightly, a voice joining the (rather painful) sounds that the baby grand is emitting.

“ _ There’s a saying old, says that love is bli _ —fuck,  _ bli—blind…Still, we’re often told, seek and ye shall find…find…find… _ There it is.  _ So I’m going to seEK  _ fuck! God.  _ Seek a certain man I’ve had…in…mind…”  _ The voice, although strong at  moments , cracks a few times as it stumbles over the tune. Grantaire winces, then glances over at the piano, morbid curiosity drawing him to the source of the worst playing he’s heard since elementary school.

There’s a curly blond head bowed over the keys, and a red hoodie identifies the player as Enjolras. He’s picking out the tune with one hand, largely ignoring the sheet music in front of him.

“ _ There’s a some-bo-dy I’m longing to see—LONGing to see… _ fuck it all… _ I hope that he…turns out to be…Someone who’ll WATCH over me…”  _ It’s clear from Enjolras’s voice that he’s exhausted. The high notes are just out of reach, and he sinks into the lower notes with so much relief that it’s almost painful to hear him climb back up again. He seems to have figured out how to use both hands by this point, though, and as Grantaire watches his back straightens, his voice coming out a bit more clearly.

_ “I’m a little lamb who’s lost in the wood, I know I could…could always be good… _ dammit… _ could always be good…to one who’ll wa—atch…”  _ Another quavering crack and Enjolras’s hands falter over the keys, air rushing out of him in defeat. Grantaire steps forward then, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat and sliding onto the bench next to the smaller boy. He takes advantage of his surprise to slip his hands over Enjolras’s, guiding them gently to play the chords. They play the  next  _ over me  _ voicelessly, and then he feels Enjolras take a deep breath. Almost of their own accord, Grantaire’s lips part, and he finds himself singing the  next  verse as well.

_ “I may not be the man some boys think of as handsome--”  _ Enjolras smiles in pleasant surprise as Grantaire sings the slightly edited lyric with him—“ _ But to my heart, he carries the key. Won’t you tell him please to put on some speed, follow my lead, oh, how I need…”  _ their hands still as Grantaire looks down at Enjolras at the exact moment that he looks up at him.  _ “Someone to watch over me.” _

They sit, frozen, for what feels like a very long time. Grantaire’s hands still rest atop Enjolras’s. And then he moves them, resting his hands lightly on Enjolras’s hips and hesitating for a moment as he leans down. Enjolras moves as well, his hands suddenly tangled in Grantaire’s unruly brown curls, and neither of them are quite certain what the other is doing or thinking but somehow their mouths collide, and it’s soft and sweet and a little wetter than might be considered ideal but it’s so good and so  _ real,  _ and Enjolras has so many responsibilities in so many other places but somehow none of that really matters, and if he makes a rather embarrassing little sound, who could blame him? Because here he is,  _ Grantaire,  _ with his five o’clock shadow and ratty green shirt and those strong, warm hands. And he’s kissing Enjolras, and Enjolras has never felt something quite so profoundly  _ good  _ as this.


	15. Chapter 15

Grantaire and Enjolras stay locked together for a long time, until finally Grantaire pulls back for a moment.

“Is…this ok?” He asks softly, tucking a stray curl behind Enjolras’s ear. Enjolras nods, his already-flushed face going a shade darker. “Good.” He leans down, kissing Enjolras again. His tongue darts out, tracing Enjolras’s lower lip, and suddenly he can feel Enjolras tense up against him. Before he can ask what’s wrong, Grantaire hears the door to the theatre open.

In the world’s most coordinated movement, Enjolras leaps off the bench and leans against the piano, as Grantaire slides over until he’s facing middle C. Placing his hands on the keyboard again, he begins playing the first song that comes to mind, and Enjolras catches his drift and sings along, his voice shaky with adrenaline.

“Look for the bear necessities, the simple bear necessities…” Neither of them are quite sure what the hell they’re doing, and Marius, Cosette, and Eponine seem equally confused as they enter the theatre.

“What’s going on in here?” Cosette queries.

“If we’re adding another song to the show during the last rehearsal I think I might throw up.” Marius looks positively green as he says it, and Enjolras believes him.

“No, we’re just, um,” he stutters.

“Warming up. This is the new all-cast warmup song,” Grantaire supplies.

“It’s supposed to be a morale booster before performances and such,” Enjolras adds. “Well, I should go. Check on things.” Avoiding eye contact with Grantaire and the trio who just arrived, he turns tail and runs backstage.

“What’s up with him?” Eponine asks. “Tech Week finally catching up to him?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Grantaire replies. “Where’s Combeferre? I want to ask him about the lyrics in the finale.”

“He should be here in a minute, I think I saw him in the hall.” Cosette replies. “Are you alright, R? You seem a little shaken.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Too much caffeine, probably.” The other three seem to buy it, and Grantaire goes back to tinkering with the piano while they go to change into costume and turn on the light board, respectively.

* * *

 

“Alright everyone, circle up!” Enjolras calls. It’s an hour since the start of rehearsal, and they’re only just now ready to start running the show. This is due in part to the fact that Montparnasse insisted on having Cosette’s incredibly long, stick-straight hair curled, although some of the blame can be put on Combeferre and Courfeyrac for completely disappearing for about thirty minutes. In any case, the entire Drama Club is now gathered onstage. “This is our last rehearsal, and we need to make good use of it; however, I also need all of you to be well-rested tomorrow. So if we can make it through the first run-through without any major issues, I’ll let everyone who doesn’t need extra time go after that.” A ripple of excitement passes through the crowd at the thought of actually getting to sleep at a reasonable hour. “I only have a few notes before we begin. Marius, your body language in the first scene last night was way better! I don’t know where it came from, but that was completely believable. Great job.” Marius ducks his head, and Cosette kisses his cheek to congratulate him. “Courfeyrac, you really have to be closer to centre on that one line when you’re talking to Lily; Eponine can’t put the spotlight on you without getting me as well otherwise.” Courfeyrac nods. “And finally, Bossuet, if we could get Cosette’s mic to actually turn on, that would be great. Not that she can’t handle belting everything, but I’d love to have a tiny bit of consistency since everyone else is mic’d.” Bossuet salutes him solemnly. “That’s all I have. Let’s get through this, shall we? Places for the top of the show!”

“Thank you places” echoes throughout the theatre as everyone scrambles to get to the wings and booth. Enjolras and Grantaire stand stiffly side-by-side in the upstage right entrance, desperately trying to pretend they can’t feel the warmth radiating off each other’s bodies. Enjolras takes a deep breath and turns to speak to Grantaire, but at that exact moment the lights come up onstage. Cursing internally, he follows Grantaire on. _We can always talk later. It’s not like we won’t be spending the next three days together backstage. And the next six months in detention._

The next two hours go by quickly; somehow, they manage to get through the show without any major problems. Cosette’s mic comes on halfway through the second act, which is good enough for Enjolras’s tastes, and Marius manages to say everything except his closing monologue in English. By the time they’ve gotten through curtain call, Enjolras is ready to send everyone home. The lights come back up and he runs from his spot in the line to the front of the stage. Clapping his hands together, he rallies his remaining energy to address his friends.

“Great job everyone! Go home and get some rest, and I’ll see you here tomorrow at five for opening night.” Enjolras pauses, then adds: “Oh, and Grantaire, if I could talk to you for a minute that would be great.”

The rest of the Drama Club vacates the theatre as quickly as possible, no doubt on their ways to various warm, welcoming beds. Enjolras’s stomach churns nervously as he watches them leave one by one, until he and Grantaire are left alone in the audience. Grantaire looks up expectantly from his seat in the front row as Enjolras stands nearby, his hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie.

“So, Chief, what did you want to talk about?” The look on Grantaire’s face is unbearably smug, and Enjolras finds that the urge to smack him has been replaced with a decidedly more intimate one. Steeling himself, he takes a deep breath and tries to remember what he’s been planning to say for the past three hours.

“Grantaire, about what happened earlier…” his heart speeds up just at the thought of it, and he trails off.

“Oh. You actually want to talk.” Grantaire’s bravado fades as he sees the difficulty Enjolras is having. “Hey, E, are you ok? You seemed kind of uncomfortable toward the end there today and…” suddenly a thought occurs to him, and his eyes widen. “Enjolras, was—was that your first kiss?” Enjolras’s face goes crimson, and every fibre of Grantaire’s being is screaming for him to hug him, but he holds back.

“Is it that obvious?” he’s biting his lip now, and Grantaire is almost certain that he’ll die if he isn’t touching Enjolras in some way in the next minute. He reaches out, grasping Enjolras’s hand lightly as he continues to avoid eye contact.

“No! Not in a bad way, at least, I just. I guessed, I guess.” _Of course,_ of course _Enjolras has never kissed anyone. He’s too good for anyone._ “I’m sorry,” he blurts out.

“What?” Enjolras looks up now, concern replacing embarrassment on his face.

“Your first kiss should’ve been special. With…I don’t know, _fireworks_ or some shit. And I just…kissed you. It wasn’t romantic at all.” Grantaire replies. To his surprise, Enjolras laughs.

“Grantaire, we were singing a love song when it happened. I’m not sure it could have been any more romantic. And…there were definitely fireworks. Oh god, I shouldn’t have said that…” Grantaire’s look of concern has gone back to his signature smirk at Enjolras’s enthusiasm. His grip on Enjolras’s hand tightens and he draws him closer. Enjolras’s breath hitches, and for a moment he can’t quite believe that this is real. And then Grantaire is kissing him, standing up out of his seat and lifting him onto the edge of the stage so they’re level with each other, and all he can think about is Grantaire’s lips on his neck as he tries desperately not to fall apart altogether.


	16. Chapter 16

“Mommy made me mash my M and Ms. I cried! Mommy made me mash my M and Ms. I cried! Mommy made me mash my M and Ms.  _ I cried!”  _ It’s six o’clock, one hour before curtain. The Musaine Drama Club—including every member of the crew, who were called out onto the stage to sing along with the actors—is gathered around the piano as Grantaire draws their voices up and down. As the final “I cried!” fades out, he plays a glissando to pull their attention back in. Enjolras takes a deep breath and looks around, waiting for his friends to quiet down before he makes his pre-show speech.

“Well, everybody, we made it. Two months of rehearsals, school censorship, trying to build sets and make costumes with no budget, and somehow we’re all standing here today. And I just want to say, I am so, so proud of all of you. I’ve pushed you really hard, but you still managed to exceed every expectation I had.” He looks from face to face, and each one is smiling at him, despite their obvious exhaustion. “I’m really glad that we all got to go on this journey together. Even if Javert shuts us down after tonight, which seems pretty likely, I’d like to think that we’ll still be a family.” There’s a soft sniff from Jehan’s vicinity, and then suddenly the Drama Club come together in what is quite possibly the world’s most emotional group hug. From somewhere on the outskirts of the crowd, Montparnasse can be heard bemoaning their handiwork as Courfeyrac cries until it makes tracks in his foundation. Enjolras feels a light kiss being pressed to the tops of his head and looks up to see Combeferre gazing down at him proudly. Even Eponine joins in, although she breaks off quickly, arms around Marius and Cosette as their emotions get the best of them.

“Ok, people, get a move on! There’ll be time to cry later, right now we have a show to put on!” Joly’s voice is shaking a little, but at the sound of their stage manager’s command, the group disperses.

“Break a leg everybody!” Enjolras calls as everyone returns to their preparations. As he heads backstage, he glances back at the piano, where Grantaire still sits. Catching his eye, Enjolras throws him an excited smile, and Grantaire grins back.

“Places!” Joly’s voice rings out through the backstage hush, and Enjolras, Grantaire, Marius, Cosette, and Courfeyrac quickly make their way to their entrances. From his place upstage, Enjolras can hear Combeferre making pre-show announcements, and his heart races as he realizes the enormity of what they’re about to do. There’s no doubt in his mind that Javert is out there in the audience, and this is a blatant display of rebellion. He is trying desperately to breathe normally, to keep his heart from beating out of his chest, and then he feels Grantaire’s hand clasping his own. Their fingers lace together naturally, and Enjolras feels Grantaire squeeze him comfortingly. Closing his eyes, he returns the pressure, and then lets their hands part as they walk onstage.

The show goes by in a blur. Enjolras can feel his anxiety tensing every muscle in his body until they reach his first song; as he lets the music flow out of him, Grantaire’s accompaniment supporting and guiding him, everything melts away. He’s so drawn into the performance that he barely remembers that the audience exists. He is vaguely aware that people laugh at the funny moments, and when Marius announces that he’ll be going to war, he’s almost certain he hears someone in the back row burst into tears. But beyond that, it’s just him and his cast, high on adrenaline as they give what Combeferre claims later was the best performance any of them have ever given.

The last scene comes after what feels like forever, and Enjolras can’t tear his eyes away from Grantaire as he and Cosette sing a farewell to their respective love interests.

_ “I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you,”  _ Grantaire sings, and the song is over. There’s a momentary silence and then the audience is applauding wildly. The moment the applause peaks, Grantaire stands and leaves the piano. “Rick, I need to talk to you.” He draws Enjolras downstage, and the lights shift so that they’re the only two people visible onstage. “I’m shipping out tomorrow. I know I should’ve given you notice earlier, but I thought it would be easier this way.” Grantaire’s face looks so anguished that even though he knows on some level that he’s acting, Enjolras has to fight not to cry. They gaze into each other’s eyes for a long time, and eventually Enjolras realizes that the lights aren’t going down.  _ They must’ve gotten stuck on this cue again. Damn our outdated light board…  _ The audience is shifting restlessly, so he does the only thing he can think of to buy time: he kisses Grantaire.

Grantaire starts a little at the sudden, unchoreographed contact, but he catches on quickly and gently cups Enjolras’s cheek in his hand. At that moment, the lights finally go out, and he and Enjolras break apart and get offstage as quickly as possible. As Cosette, Marius, and Courfeyrac perform the final scene, Enjolras finds himself grinning giddily, bouncing a little as he realizes what they just did.

“You know, there’s a distinct possibility that we just gave Javert an actual heart attack,” Grantaire whispers in his ear.

“God I hope so,” Enjolras replies. “We’re almost done. I can’t wait to be suspended for my homosexual propaganda.” Grantaire laughs quietly.

“I’d love to join you in that suspension, if you’ll permit it.” Enjolras smiles up at him, taking Grantaire’s hand in his.

“Of course.” As the scene ends and the lights go out, he and Grantaire make their way onstage for curtain call. The lights come up and before they can even begin to bow, the audience is on its feet. There are a few disgruntled parents who keep their seats—most notably, Bahorel’s mother and father—but the whistles and cheers as each actor takes a bow are worth every dirty look from seats E22 and 23. As the cast takes their final bow together, Enjolras thinks that his face might actually split open from smiling so hard.  _ We did it! _

The jubilation backstage is cut short when Vice Principal Javert appears in the costume shop.

“Enjolras, a word.” The room goes silent as Enjolras steps off of the chair he’d been standing on as he congratulated the cast. He stands tall as he approaches the Vice Principal, knowing full well that whatever is coming will follow him for a long time.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Javert! I hope you enjoyed the show.” Montparnasse snorts at Enjolras’s boldness, and Courfeyrac shushes them.

“I can’t say that I did, actually. I expressly told you that you could not put offensive content onstage. You submitted a clean script to me, and I approved it in good faith. You’ve managed to single-handedly shut down the drama program at Musaine High School.” There’s an awful, self-satisfied look on his face, and Enjolras has to take a deep breath to steady himself. “There’s no way we can support a group that pushes the gay agenda on students here.”

“Actually, I found the diversity refreshing,” says an unfamiliar voice. Javert and Enjolras both turn in surprise to find an older gentleman standing in the doorway. “I think that Musaine could definitely find a place for the drama club.”

“Who are you?” Javert demands. “This is none of your business.”

“Actually, it’s entirely my business. I’m Jean Madeleine, the new head of the school board.” The man turns to the Drama Club, every member of which is staring at him in confusion. “I’m Cosette’s father. She was telling me about what a great group of young people this is the other night, and I thought I’d see if I could do anything to help you out.” Turning back to Javert, his voice hardens. “I think you’ll find that the new school values we released tonight include an emphasis on diversity. The Drama Club exemplifies that value perfectly, and the Board has opted to give them a budget of five thousand dollars a year.” There’s a moment of stunned silence as the news sinks in, and then a clamour of excited voices bursts forth.

“We’re back, baby!”

“Suck on that, Javert!”

“ _ Hell yeah!” _

“Wooh!”

“Thank you, Mr. Madeleine.” Enjolras shouts over the noise as he shakes the man’s hand. “This means a lot to all of us.” Javert takes advantage of the distraction to slink out, and Mr. Madeleine nods and winks at Enjolras before following him. Enjolras turns back to his friends, hugging the nearest person and preparing to join in the impromptu festivities.


	17. Epilogue

Somehow, Enjolras finds himself at the end of an onstage conga line led by an ecstatic Courfeyrac. As he removes his hands from Musichetta’s shoulders and takes a moment to breathe, Grantaire quietly sidles up next to him.

“Congratulations, Chief,” he says. Their hands fit together almost immediately, and Enjolras smiles up at him. “You know, this may not be the best time, but we never  _ really  _ talked about what happened the other day, and if you’re going to be throwing yourself at me onstage every night, it might be nice to…well, to know what we are.”

“You want to talk about us?” The way he says it sounds almost disbelieving, and Grantaire frowns.

“Of course I want to talk about us, if there… _ is  _ an us, I mean, I just—why would that be a surprise?”

“Grantaire, I blackmailed you into doing this show. I coerced you into acting in it. We’ve spent the past three years fighting constantly. I guess I just thought that this” he holds up their hands, still clasped together tightly “was some byproduct of the show. That once it was over you’d want to go back to the way things were. Which is fine. I don’t think I could really expect anything else, honestly, I mean I’m not exactly the easiest person to be around.” The resignation in his voice makes Grantaire’s heart ache.

“I have a secret,” he says. “You can’t tell anyone or I’ll lose my Punk Reputation but…I didn’t actually have to do the show. I got into an art class a while ago. I stayed because you needed me.” He holds his breath as Enjolras processes his confession, his face unreadable.

“And what if I still need you?” Enjolras can’t look at Grantaire, but stares at their hands instead.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to stay, won’t I?” They’re still in costume, but Enjolras finds this to be an advantage, as he uses Grantaire’s tie to pull him down into a kiss.

Eventually they find themselves in an empty changing room, Enjolras fumbling with the lock behind him as Grantaire presses him against the door. Grantaire takes a moment to appreciate Enjolras’s face, his cheeks flushed pink and blue eyes shining from between stray curls. Brushing them aside, Grantaire presses a kiss to his forehead, then the tip of his nose, then each cheek…

“Oh my  _ god,  _ Grantaire, stop being such a sap and kiss me!” Grantaire laughs.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Director.”

As the Conga line disbands, someone calls out for Enjolras to make a victory speech. Casting about for their director, it quickly becomes clear to the assembled group that he is nowhere to be found.

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac shouts. “Come on, man, you know you want to say something! You’ve got a captive audience.” No golden head appears, though, and a quick look around the audience and backstage hallway yields no results. Finally, Musichetta turns to Bossuet.

“Babe, why don’t you turn on his mic? Might help us figure out where he is.”

Bossuet quickly runs up the stairs to the booth, and after a moment, Enjolras’s mic comes on. There is only the sound of breathing, at first, and then another sound that Bossuet can’t quite place.

“Oh my god, is he kissing someone?” Courfeyrac’s question causes several sets of eyes to fly open in surprise, and Bossuet tries desperately to get the mic to turn off.

_ “Grantaire…”  _ The name is followed by a burst of feedback, and then Eponine arrives in the booth and rips the cord leading to the sound board from its socket. The stage is silent for a moment before Combeferre pipes up.

“Alright, everybody, pay up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you can, I would appreciate if you would take the time to share your thoughts on my fic with me through a comment here. Even just telling me your favourite character or plot point can help me improve in the future!  
> 


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